Broccoli, Carrots, and Cauliflower, Oh My!
by Mandelene
Summary: It's about time America cracked down on his unhealthy eating habits, but he won't be able to do it alone. England plans on dragging the hamburger-loving nation toward achieving a healthier lifestyle, even if America's dead set on kicking and screaming through the entire journey. Rated T for America's flowery language.
1. License To Grill

_December 25, 2012_

_A.K.A: The. Worst. Christmas. Ever._

It was that time of the year again; the season of family get-togethers, grueling shopping sprees, long lines, and mind-boggling traffic. Tantrum-prone children raided the snow-filled streets of New York City along with their exhausted parents who yearned for schools to be back in session. People bustled to and fro, trying to fit in some last minute shopping into their busy schedules, leaving the entire city in a standstill of suppressed anticipation.

And, needless to say, after being stuck in the merciless gridlock of downtown Manhattan for nearly two hours, America was beginning to lose his patience as well as every ounce of Christmas cheer that he had previously possessed. He grit his teeth and clenched the steering wheel of his Chevy, silently cursing the car in front of him, which was moving slower than molasses. He tried to find a way to merge into a different lane, but that idea had grown improbable with all the chaos of the surrounding environment.

He regretted not having taken the train, though he doubted it would have been any better. The trains were always crowded, but the creeps, looters and perverts of the city liked to come out during the holidays, making mass transit a slightly more risky form of transportation than usual. With a groan of surrender, America dropped his head onto the rim of the steering wheel and muttered under his breath in frustration. He loved New York dearly—it would always hold his heart—but it certainly liked to push his buttons at times.

And maybe being stuck in traffic wouldn't have been that bad if he wasn't still upset about having to cancel his annual Christmas party.

Truth be told, the party cancellation had been a sheer miscalculation of events on his part. At first, he had debated celebrating at all this year, deciding on maybe just staying home and taking an outrageously long nap until the clock struck midnight once more. Yet, surprisingly enough, England had outright demanded to be invited to the nonexistent social gathering and had convinced Canada to come as well (who then invited France).

Soon after, he felt an obligation to make this Christmas something special, even though he wasn't feeling high in spirits at all. The past few months had been tedious, considering tragedies such as Hurricane Sandy and, most recently, the massacre in Connecticut. Yet, he had to put on an air of hope and strength to pull everything back together again, even if it was more for his own benefit than anyone else's. He had to convince himself that he was going to be fine, and that things would get better with time. This Christmas party was supposed to be a symbol of that.

It seemed like there would be no evading December 25th this year.

Or so he thought until receiving a lengthy lecture over the phone from his boss concerning the lab results of his last physical at the doctor's. Supposedly, a two-timing blood test revealed that his cholesterol levels were through the roof. If he didn't change his eating habits within the next visit to McDonald's, a heart attack would be imminent. So, seeing as his deteriorating physical state was more important than a party, he'd been forced to cancel it to take care of himself immediately. The ultimatum from his boss had been that either he treat himself at home quickly or be forced to go to the hospital.

And hospitals were totally unheroic.

So, he'd decided on the former option, promising to his boss to do everything in his power to get into shape.

He'd agreed to go on a…a…DIET.

He shuddered at the word.

But unsurprisingly enough, his boss didn't think he'd be able to do it without a little reinforcement. So, who had been called in to do the job?

That's right, England.

In fact, his boss needn't have even called the nation, since he'd already suspected that his help would be needed after hearing about the abrupt cancellation of the party that he had forced America to invite him to.

America chided himself for not foreseeing it sooner. England had always known when he was out-of-sorts; his mommy-senses would tingle and send him straight to the contact list on his phone, preparing him for the delivery of yet another long lecture.

America forced himself to understand even though he wished he didn't. After raising a child for so many years, there was no going back. He supposed no parent (or in this case mentor), ever ceased worrying about their children. It was involuntary and vicious, demanding to be felt as it uncoiled itself and reached out to the past. Loving parents unconditionally loved their children in return, and did not care whether their love and concern were appreciated or not, they'd continue their old ways in spite of rejection.

England wasn't going away. Unfortunately, he was going to be stuck with him for the next two weeks.

Two. Whole. Weeks.

Spending two weeks with England was difficult under normal circumstances, but now he had to listen to everything the man told him to do or risk being sent to the hospital. No party. No cheeseburgers. No cookies… The list went on.

_Worst. Christmas. Ever._

Therefore, America hadn't made things as extravagant as they normally would have been. The tree and decorations he'd set up were modest; he couldn't bring himself to celebrate as much as he would have liked. He would _acknowledge_ the holidays; it would be just enough to put his mind at ease for making an attempt at participating in the festivities.

Now, if this car would finally pick up the pace, he could continue on with his miserable life!

Next year, he'd stick to getting everyone gift cards instead of something more thoughtful.

He turned right at the next intersection, making a futile attempt at somehow circling around the traffic to get onto the Brooklyn Bridge. The result led in a string of cars honking at him for trying to push his way into the lane accompanied by roars of some rather creative vocabulary. America swore under his breath for the umpteenth time, squeezing the bridge of his nose in agitation. When he finally composed himself again, he caught a glimpse of the Freedom Tower in his rearview mirror, proudly looming over the city's skyline and Ground Zero.

He huffed impatiently albeit affectionately.

One thing was for sure, he was going to have the biggest cup of coffee he could stomach when he got home; his last coffee before England could get his limey hands on it.

* * *

When the doorbell rang two hours later, America stole a peek at the not-so-mysterious visitor through the peep-hole, suppressing another groan and steeling himself for an adventurous afternoon.

He swung the door open roughly, barely missing England's nose by an inch.

"Oi! Watch it!" the Englishman barked with startled eyes. He recovered no more than a moment later, presenting a small present encased in gold wrapping paper to his former colony. "Happy Christmas, you big wanker," he finally murmured with an awkward smile, trying to come off as pleasant.

America took his opportunity to look bewildered. England usually sent his Christmas presents in the mail, refusing to exchange them with the American in person. The younger nation gave the man a thoughtful look, his façade of 'noble hero' forgotten as he gazed into his former mentor's eyes. There was no pretending with England; no false smiles and empty glee. England could see right through his phony pretenses, so there was no point in even attempting anything seemingly deceptive in his presence.

So, America allowed himself the privilege of being genuine.

"Thanks, you stodgy, old man," he joked half-heartedly, accepting the gift from England's hands and embracing him in a quick hug. The pair broke away from each other promptly, both feeling extremely awkward under the circumstances. The gesture had lasted for less than a second. "Merry Christmas to you too."

After the formalities, England instantaneously turned stern, posture firm as rock. "You can start your new exercise regimen by bringing my luggage upstairs. Hop to it, lad."

America pouted, eyes losing their shine once more. "And here I thought you were going to be nice to me for a change," he grumbled lowly, picking up the bags and marching up the stairs unhappily. Exercise wasn't normally a problem for him, but he was struggling as of late. It seemed that someone had neglected to tell him that "working out like a champ" did not entitle someone to have a fatty diet. Exercise and a proper diet went hand-in-hand, meaning that one was ineffective without the other.

He dropped the bags in the guestroom and sighed, wondering if he could perhaps seclude himself to his own room for a little while to avoid England's persistent nagging.

Fate was not on his side today.

"America! What's taking you so long? I've got something for you."

Oh, no.

America frowned and jogged back downstairs, finding England comfortably resting on the couch, the abandoned gold-wrapped gift on the coffee table next to him along with a small bottle of what looked to be like a canister for medication.

"What's that?" he asked warily, sitting across from England in the opposite armchair. With a nonchalant glance, England tossed the medicine bottle across the room.

"Your new best friends. You'll be taking those pills to keep you from getting heart disease until our natural remedies start working sufficiently," England explained coyly, biting back a smirk. "I always warned you it would come down to this."

America scowled, waiting for the follow-up statement. "Go ahead, say it."

"I told you so," England said slowly, making sure America suffered through every word. "Now, I've brought some herbal tea with me, which you'll be drinking to help you swallow those monstrous pills. Until that's ready, you may want to open your gift."

America sent a skeptical look at the other nation as he exited the room, but held his tongue. He quickly unwrapped the gift and tossed the wrapping paper aside, examining the book England had given him.

The title read, '_He Who Stuffeth…Puffeth!_'

America snarled, attempting to burn the book with his glare. "Very funny, England!"

England merely hummed joyfully from his spot in the kitchen. "I suggest you stop yapping and start reading!"

Feeling extremely frustrated with the entire predicament, America flipped to the first chapter out of curiosity, wincing at the cheesy heading.

'_Chapter One: Tough Cookies Don't Crumble.' _

He was going to be sick…

* * *

Two ridiculous chapters later, England came back with a cup of tea in one hand and a bright, alcoholic beverage in the other.

"I see you've found the stash of Christmas, passion fruit mojitos that I made," America acknowledged with a strained grin.

England crinkled his nose in thought. "I suppose this is your plan then? To get me thoroughly sloshed before the night ends?"

"Not exactly," America smirked. "After all, you were the one who couldn't resist the temptation. Just chill, though. It's Christmas, remember? Chug that down and have a jolly ol' time. It's got white rum in it, your favorite. My plan, if you're still wondering, is to get you to loosen up and have a good time for once in your ancient life. By the way, your gift is under the tree. Don't get too excited though because it's the same style scarf I get you every year since you're always complaining that your too cold."

"Well, Merry bloody Christmas to me then," England puffed, downing a third of the glass in one swig; throat burning and all sense detaching itself from his antsy thoughts. He then rudely shoved the mug of tea into America's face, ordering him to drink. "Take two of those pills I handed you and finish the rest of that tea."

Tentatively, America took a sip of the concoction, immediately screwing up his face and gagging the second it reached his taste buds. "Ugh! This tastes like piss."

"No it doesn't, you simply have to put to use that rusty imagination of yours. It tastes just like that coffee you're so fond of… What was is called again? Ah, yes, the caramel brulee latte from Starbucks."

America's grimace deepened. "Dude, don't remind me of Starbucks! You're torturing me! It's a free country, and I don't have to drink this crap."

"No tea is bad tea," England remarked calmly, sipping his mojito. He knew this job wasn't going to be an easy one.

"I have a right to my opinion," America countered, eyes cold and scathing.

"Well, so do I. My opinion is that you have no right to an opinion seeing as you cannot even take proper care of yourself. Children should not have a right to their opinion if they act so poorly."

"I'm no longer a child," America hissed, growing defensive. He still hadn't ingested the medication.

England used the argument to his advantage. "Yet, you choose to behave like one. Honestly, you haven't changed at all, have you? You're like a petulant toddler who refuses to take his cold medicine."

America's eyes grew murderous, baby blues burning with repressed anger. "Am not!" He poured out two pills and swallowed them down with the rest of the tea, downing the entire thing in under a minute. With a triumphant look, he slammed the empty cup on the table, daring England to insult him again.

The elder nation smugly finished his mojito and settled his back against the couch before perusing through the pile of newspapers that America had stockpiled on the coffee table. His trick had worked just as planned. When America's dignity was put into question, he would do anything with the right amount of persuasion.

The young nation sent a flummoxed look in the other's direction. "And? That's it?"

England furrowed his brows. "Sorry? I don't know what you mean."

"You aren't going to make me do a hundred push-ups, eat a head of broccoli or run up and down the stairs like an idiot?" America asked carefully, eying the weight-loss book that was innocently sitting on the arm rest next to him.

England turned to the business section of the New York Times. "No, I don't think so."

America was speechless. "But—you—I…"

"It's Christmas, America. There'll be plenty of time for getting into shape in the morning. I trust you can occupy yourself until then?" England teased lightly.

America seriously wanted to punch a wall, but resisted the urge.

"Excellent. Well then, I suppose there's time for another mojito."

America growled under his breath. "Bastard. You better not get too drunk, I don't want to be scrubbing vomit off the floor tonight."

"Don't you worry about me," England assured. "Perhaps, chapter four might be a good place for you to end for the night."

America lifted the polished book once more, flipping to what England was referring to. He mustered every ounce of his willpower to hold back the urge to throw the book at the Brit's amused face.

'_Chapter Four: License To Grill'_


	2. Death To Twinkies

**Author's Note: Instead of studying for finals, I've decided to dedicate my time to writing fluff. x) After all, if I don't know it by now, I won't learn it in the next few days, right? At least, that's the way I justify my mindless procrastination... ENJOY :)**

* * *

By happy chance, Christmas night was spent in homely company despite the absence of customary celebrations. A cozy fire in the fireplace of America's townhouse had been enough to set the Christmas mood, and a sufficiently jetlagged England had become less sour over the course of the evening. The pair engaged in casual conversation and watched stale TV specials (during which England promptly fell asleep on the couch halfway through).

Deciding to leave him be for the night, America brought out some spare blankets and pillows from his closet, making sure England was in a somewhat comfortable sleeping position before turning in for the day as well. He knew the other nation would wake up with a stiff and sore back in the morning because the couch was terribly inconvenient to sleep on, but America supposed the man deserved it after all of his previous antagonizing.

So, he went to his bedroom and was left to wonder what the near future had in store for him.

Oh, was he in for a fun-filled surprise.

* * *

_Day One (officially):_

Suffice it to say that England was _not_ a happy camper the following morning. At six o'clock sharp, he stormed into America's room, ramming through the door and stripping the bedcovers off of his former charge mercilessly. When the movement and sudden cold did not rouse the nation, he blew into the silver whistle resting around his neck, moving dangerously close to America's ear for the ensured desired effect.

At the shrill noise, America sprang out of bed, the hairs on his neck standing upright like a cat as he clawed and fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, all the while kicking his feet and crying out frantically in perplexed fear. When he finally found his spectacles, he pressed them onto his face and blinked groggily around the room, cowering immediately toward the head of his bed upon seeing England's forest green eyes regarding him coolly.

"Wha—Man, what was that for?" America frowned, rubbing his neck awkwardly upon realizing what a fit he'd thrown. He could feel his cheeks warming sheepishly for overreacting.

England crossed his arms impatiently, tapping his sneaker-clad foot on the ground. "It's time to get up. Get dressed, brush your teeth and meet me downstairs in ten minutes.

America tried to process the words, mind still partially lost in his dream-world as he blinked his groggy eyes repeatedly at England, thoroughly lost. "I—Why are you wearing sneakers? You never wear…" the nation stopped his blabbering momentarily to catch a glance at the clock on his bedside table. "WHAT? SIX O'CLOCK? Dude, it's the day after Christmas! You coulda let me sleep in."

"Could've," England corrected, tone steady. "As far as I can recall, didn't your Benjamin Franklin once wisely say, 'Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise'? How fitting."

America scowled. "Don't quote my people! Brits aren't worthy enough to even—Ouch!"

England approached dangerously close to the nation once more, twisting the young man's ear roughly. "Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

Oh, how America wanted to give England an earful (no pun intended on his part), but held his tongue. "No," he replied solemnly.

"Lovely. Now, get dressed in your sneakers and sweatpants. I don't want to hear a peep out of you."

Ten minutes later, America recalled how he had contemplated England's request upon first waking up. He'd wondered for a brief second why England had made him brush his teeth before eating, but didn't dare to question the nation, mainly because his ear was still aching.

He remembered a time when England used to twist his ear all the time whenever he was a little colony getting himself into trouble. He'd had his fair share of time-outs, lectures, groundings, and even beatings after some serious mischief while under the man's care. He swore he could still feel the sting in his backside after that one time during the Boston Tea Party. It hadn't been his most heroic moment, to put it lightly.

And now, he felt like a punished child all over again.

He walked into the kitchen to snatch himself a quick breakfast before going out on what he supposed was meant to be an early morning jog, but was stopped before he could even grab the handle of the fridge.

England clicked his tongue reproachfully. "You won't be needing anything in there," he said, holding up a water bottle for America to see. "This will suffice for now."

America felt is jaw drop. "You're going to starve me now? Hasn't someone told you Brits that breakfast is the most important meal of the day? I need my coffee at least."

"Absolutely not. Coffee is the last thing you need right now. If we're going to put you on a diet, we're going to do it _properly_; none of those fad diets that you've undoubtedly been searching up on Google. And, you will be having breakfast, but we'll be going _out_ to eat," England informed calmly, passing America his winter coat.

The young nation brightened up just a bit. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have to eat England's cooking. He hurriedly zipped on his coat accompanied by a hat and scarf, before stepping out the door and walking down to the end of the block with his former guardian. They stopped at the intersection.

"You're long overdue for a nice uphill jog. Maybe it'll teach you to treat your body with more respect the next time you pick up a hamburger. Fifteen blocks directly up from here is a little diner that I'm sure you're well aware of. We'll eat there after you're done," England announced loftily, searching for something in his pocket as he spoke.

America let out a puff of breath upwards, bangs fluttering as he did so. "Alright, guess we better get started then."

"We?" England raised an eyebrow in question, passing over the water bottle he'd had in his possession over to America. "I'll be taking the bus from here," he smirked softly, flashing his New York City Metro-card in front of the other country's face.

"HEY, NO FAIR!" America roared, trying to snatch England's wrist as the man made his escape across the street and over to the nearest bus stop. "Aren't you supposed to stay and offer me some motivational support throughout my run? I thought you were actually going to be helpful!"

When England had fully disappeared behind a street corner, America let out some vulgarities under his breath. He straightened his posture and began his morning jog, eyes still murderous. As his motivator, he pictured himself strangling England once he reached the diner, fingers digging into his neck. It was enough to keep him running at a steady pace without any hesitation in between breaths of cold air.

The wintery chill in Brooklyn that day had been brutal, biting at his face as his pulse and respiratory rate heightened. He felt himself beginning to sweat despite the cold, and immediately felt the urge to collapse and rip off his jacket; anything to rid himself of the heat coursing beneath the fabric. His skin, however, was still icy to the touch, making the entire exercise uncomfortable and more tiring than it should have been.

Twelve blocks in, America legitimately thought that he was going to die. He had long since finished the water England had given him and had thrown the bottle away. A single block seemed to stretch on for miles uphill, gusts of wind plowing into his face as he went. He couldn't understand why the simple run had been so hard for him to finish, but his lungs were burning in protest after inhaling cold air for much too long. When the diner finally came into sight a block later, he felt relief flood over him. He was burning up and freezing at the same time; his head was pounding, his lungs were wheezing, and his nose was completely numb from the frigid breeze.

It wasn't until he pushed open the door to the quaint little diner that he finally began to feel faint. The warm air inside of the building collided with his shivering/sweaty body, flashing over him in a dizzying spell. A waitress greeted him and tried to usher him to a table, but he stopped her, staggering over to the other end of the room and reaching the booth England was settled in, sipping warm tea and enjoying his breakfast.

The waitress stole one look at the furious expression in America's face and had the decency to retreat back behind the counter with the other employees wordlessly.

"Ah, Alfred, you've finally made it I see," England murmured, putting down the mug in his hands and finally looking his former charge in the eyes.

America wasted no time in parking himself in the opposite side of the booth, sighing as his shivering skin finally began to regain some feeling. "Damn it, Arthur! Are you trying to kill me?" he panted slightly, world still teetering back and forth as England's critical eyes took in his form.

"Feeling faint already?" he hummed knowingly. "My boy, we've barely started."

"Oh, shut up. You're supposed to be being helpful, but all you've done is bitch at me."

England scowled sharply, but slid a glass of orange juice across the table nonetheless. "Drink some of that to bring your blood sugar levels up. I don't need you collapsing on me."

"Maybe if you'd just let me have my morning snack—" America began to grumble discontentedly once more.

England held up a hand to halt the conversation. "Stop whining. The waitress should be bringing in your meal any minute now."

America pouted adorably, trying to make England cave in his strict ways. "You mean I don't even get to order my own food?"

England crinkled his nose distastefully. "That look isn't going to work on me. So you might as well conserve your energy for more important matters. We have a busy day ahead of us."

America crossed his arms on the table, resting his head on the makeshift pillow. "How are you planning on torturing me today?"

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," England responded shortly. Thankfully, the waitress returned at that moment, placing her pickings on the table with a cheery smile on her face before returning back to her post.

America looked down at the bowl that was watching him mockingly with a dark expression, eyes mourning. "Seriously, oatmeal? I hate oatmeal! It's so bland!"

"Not just any oatmeal. It's whole grain oatmeal with fresh strawberries," England pointed out matter-of-factly.

America clenched his fists, looking over to England's plate of breakfast. "Why do I have to eat this shit when you're having buttered toast and eggs?"

"Because I'm not the one with the cholesterol problem."

America just about lost it then, head reeling and face transitioning into a plethora of colors before he started on his rant. "No! You won't sit there and pig out in whatever the hell you like while I'm stuck eating this mushed up trash! You're supposed to be boosting my morale and supporting me on this diet, not making me feel twenty times worse about it. I'm done screwing around and playing along with your shitty ideas! I didn't get any sleep this morning, I'm hungry, and I haven't had any freaking coffee, so either start being useful or I swear to god I will beat the crap out of you, Arthur!"

England's eyes became startled for a moment before he coolly picked up his mug of tea again, trying to pretend like nothing had ever happened. "I understand your frustrated, but—"

America gripped the front of the older man's sweater vest, nails nipping at the seams of the cotton. England spilled the last of his tea on the table as a result of the unexpected physical contact.

"Arthur, I'm going to say it one time and one time only: _I. Need. My. Fucking. Coffee._"

There was a small, surprised gasp that emitted from the throat of America's captive.

"Release me this instant! Sit down and stop causing a scene. You will eat what's on your plate or nothing at all. It's your choice. More caffeine is the last thing your plaque ridden arteries and overworked heart need," England reasoned, refusing to relent in his decision.

America begrudgingly let England go, dropping back down into his seat dramatically.

"You're such a bastard, Arthur. You better sleep with your eyes open tonight because I—"

"Eat," England demanded, wiping up the spilled tea with some napkins. "You're worse than a toddler. I suppose we'll have to take a different approach toward things from now on."

America's bubbling anger seemed to simmer down just a bit, his caffeine withdrawals and grumpiness easing up a little as he lost the energy to pick another fight. "What do you mean?"

The young nation was really starting to despise that devilish look in England's eyes.

"We're going shopping."

* * *

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

"Stop that; you're going to injure whatever brains you have left."

"Make me."

"Don't test me."

"Bluff…"

"Cheeky brat."

America finally lifted his head from the handle of the shopping cart, forehead slightly tinged with red spots from continuously banging it against the plastic covering of the bar. England was making this grocery shopping experience grueling on purpose, taking his time in selecting his food choices very carefully before finally placing the items in the cart.

There had to be some way to successfully sneak a pack of Skittles or a Twix bar into their cart without England noticing. All he needed was one bar of sugary goodness to get him through the rest of the day. Just one little piece of candy would ease his cranky mood considerably. His sweet tooth had to have its proper dose of cavity-inducing food stuffs.

He was growing more desperate by the minute.

He was like a heroin addict, twitchy and uneasy as the minutes stretched between his last fix and the passing seconds.

America straightened his shoulders, standing upright with a determined look directed at his personal nutritionist's back. "Hey, Arthur?"

Said man let out an annoyed sound from his mouth before turning out and replying. "What is it now?"

"I gotta piss."

England grimaced, rubbing the side of his face wearily. "Can't you at least _try _to be a little more eloquent? Why didn't you… Erm… Take care of your _business_ while we were at the diner?"

America settled on the most childish excuse he could come up with, knowing that it would drive his companion up the wall.

"Because I didn't havta go then!"

"Can't you wait?"

America puffed out his cheeks with a sly smile. "Well, yeah, I mean I _guess_ I could, but don't blame me if the staff gets called over to clean up aisle three."

England's face grew pink. "Have you no sense of shame? Fine then, go! Be quick about it."

America nodded and saluted. "Sure thing, Mr. Stooge."

He scurried away in the opposite direction before he could hear England's response, making sure he looked as casual as possible as he went outside of the man's field of view. When the coast was clear, he raced to the junk-food section, practically drooling at all the selections.

Oh, what he wouldn't do for a pack of Doritos right about now.

He had to focus, though. He'd obviously be caught if he bought the super-jumbo pack of double-stuffed Oreo cookies, and tried to hide it under his shirt or something equally ridiculous. After debating the pros and cons of each choice, he went for the good, ol' American Twinkie. Rumors of Twinkies not being produced anymore were growing considering Hostess' financial problems, so he'd allow himself to indulge in the sugary sweet snack one last time. The packet came with just two Twinkies, which meant the bag was small enough to innocently hide in his coat pocket.

He stealthily stepped over to the cash register, anxiously taking note of his surroundings to keep himself updated on England's location. Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so antsy.

"Will that be all, sir?" the pretty woman at the register asked him with a befuddled look. He had to admit, it was kind of awkward that he'd come to the grocery store only to buy one, stupid pack of Twinkies.

"Yeah," he replied with a lofty chuckle, wooing the lady with a charismatic grin. "'Fraid so, darling."

"That'll be a dollar fifty."

_Damn tax. _

America hastily drew out the correct amount of money out of his wallet and stuffed the Twinkies into his pocket, feeling relieved just knowing that he had some sweets in his possession.

He bid the cashier farewell and was about to go back to England, but decided that there would be no better time to consume the Twinkies than now. This way, he wouldn't have to worry about hiding them. He took cover in the nearest aisle, ripping open the packaging and biting the first Twinkie in half with a hum of content. He slid down to the floor of the supermarket, instantly feeling better both mentally and physically.

So maybe he did have a _tiny_ addiction to food.

"Alfred?"

_Crap. So close. _

He stuffed the evidence in his pocket, raising his hands up in surrender at England's reprimanding stance. "Sup, Arthur?"

England's hands were on his hips, shopping cart abandoned a few feet away. "Empty your pockets."

America turned the pockets of his sweatpants inside out, giving England an angelic smile. "Is there anything else I can do for you, master?"

"Your other pockets."

America inwardly cursed, running his tongue over his teeth. "What other pockets? Man, you're so funny, Eng—"

England pulled out the half-eaten bag of Twinkies out of America's coat pocket, shaking his head with a sigh. "Unbelievable."

"Y'know," America began, trying to shed some light on the situation. "The great thing about making mistakes is that you learn from them, and I think we've both learned some very valuable lessons today."

England held out the sugary treat in repugnance. "Both?"

"Yeah, I learned that I shouldn't give into temptation so easily, and you learned that you shouldn't trust me to walk around alone in a grocery store. So, forgive and forget?" America suggested innocently.

…

England silently confiscated the Twinkies, headed for the cash register, and handed all of the packed bags of groceries over to America, among which contained four, heavy gallons of freshwater. He then made America walk home on foot once more, while he took a pleasant bus ride yet again.

_So close!_

* * *

"At least keep the—NO! Not my Fruit Loops!" America protested theatrically as England emptied out his pantry and threw out all of the food that he declared unhealthy.

"Eating this is literally equivalent to eating a bowl of sugar for breakfast, and too much sugar is directly correlated to high cholesterol," England droned like a boring school-teacher, replacing the Fruit Loops with a box of Cheerios.

America's stomach grumbled loudly, the sound reverberating throughout the kitchen.

The sleeping beast had awakened.

England's lean-turkey sandwich wasn't enough to satisfy his breadbasket, and the caffeine withdrawals were coming back in full-swing. He doubled-over in his spot by the corner of the kitchen from the pain of his splitting migraine, eyes sunken and exhausted.

"England, I think I'm dying," he finally moaned sullenly. "Can't I just have one, itty-bitty cup of coffee?"

The man frowned, tossing away the potato chips he'd just gotten his hands on. "No, but I can give you some painkillers for the headache."

"But then I'll get addicted to the pills instead!"

"Don't be ridiculous. I've never heard of anyone getting addicted to Advil," England reassured, disposing of the giant tub of Folger's coffee laying on the counter.

America barely bit back a whimper of disbelief. His coffee had always been a good and loyal friend.

"But if you're so concerned, why not just take a warm shower and then settle down for a nap?" England recommended, taking out a new garbage bag out of the bottom drawer.

"A nap?" America choked on the air in his lungs. "NAP?! I'm the freaking United States of America; I don't take naps. Maybe that's what you old stooges in Britain do. Keep your weird, islander customs to yourself."

"You'll need your energy if you want to perform well at the gym tomorrow; today was just a transitioning phase. Besides, you've been a grouch all day. A nap would do you wonders," England reasoned with a small smile. Seeing America so flustered and twitchy because of his caffeine addiction was amusing to spectate.

The blue-eyed nation stuck his tongue out in displeasure. "Heroes don't take naps."

England narrowed his eyes coyly. "Really, now? I can recall a time when I used to set you down for naps all the time when you began misbehaving or throwing tantrums. In fact, you needed regular naps to keep that temper of yours in check," he teased, placing his index finger on his former colony's nose tauntingly for a split second before drawing away. "Just try it and then prove me wrong."

America intended on doing just that. He was going to flaunt his victory in England's face after he showered and took that stupid nap, only to be living proof that the man's method was useless.

It was rather unfortunate then when America's stiff muscles and aching head finally began to fade in the shower, leaving him content and extraordinarily sleepy no more than an hour later.

When he descended the stairs later that very same afternoon with his tousled hair and sleep-crusted eyes, he moodily ignored England for the remainder of the day, unwilling to admit his defeat.

Oh, how he_ hated_ it whenever England was right.

Thirteen days to go.


	3. The More The Merrier

_Day 2:_

To say America was pissed off was a severe understatement.

He had never considered himself to be a morning person, but with coffee close by, he'd always managed to come off as semi-pleasant. On the rare occasions when he was ill or hung over and neglected to have his coffee, he was an absolute nightmare, which was typically why he didn't have many visitors swing by his house on days where he couldn't care to be bothered with anything or anybody; God help the person who dared to disturb his beauty sleep without some caffeine prepared.

And, as if right on cue, a humming noise from down the hall roused him, causing him to peel open one eye in irritation. There was no way in hell that he was leaving the comfort of his bed today. He was an adult; the human personification of the United States of America, for Christ's sake, and no one had the right to force him to do anything against his will. Today was the day that he would put his foot down.

He feigned sleep when England came into his bedroom in the same fashion that he had yesterday morning. The silver whistle was still around his neck, and he blew into it without thinking twice, waiting for America to spring out of bed and start his morning run once more.

Except, America hadn't budged this time.

England scowled, preparing himself for a battle of pride and wit.

He supposed he should give America another warning before threatening to take any drastic measures. So, he walked up to the younger man and shook his shoulder roughly, pulling the bed covers away from his face as he did so.

"Wake up, America. It's time for your morning jog," he announced sternly.

America's irked eyes fluttered open, cold as stone. "I'm sleeping in today," he mumbled.

England crossed his arms over his chest absently. "Oh, are you now?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Alright then, if you choose to stay in this bed like a lazy oaf, then you are allowing yourself to become a walking stroke waiting to happen," England stated apathetically, feeling absolutely no sympathy for America right then, only anger.

America merely dug his head further into his pillow and mumbled, "Uh-huh. Okay."

"Okay?" England inwardly fumed. "You're killing yourself and you think that's _okay_?"

America shrugged listlessly, curling up into a fetal position to continue his slumber. "Whatever."

And suddenly, England was reminded of America as an early adolescent, always so ignorant and argumentative about everything. He'd made the mistake before of ignoring the terrible habit that the boy had been forming back then, but he wasn't going to make that same mistake now.

"So you're just going to give up, is that it?"

America's eyebrows furrowed. "No. What do you mean?"

England sighed, deciding that America was long overdue for a good lecture and some guilt-tripping tactics. "If you don't get up and show yourself that you _can _do this, then what kind of example will you be setting for your citizens? I didn't come here because I expected you to not change whatsoever and finally earn yourself a stroke or a heart attack. Do you want to raise another generation of unhealthy Americans, who all have Type 2 diabetes by the time they're the age of nine? Perhaps, I expected too much of you. You think this is just another joke."

America took offense to this, but kept his mouth shut, unwilling to concede to England just yet. He knew better than to argue with the man when he was in such a foul mood.

"I'll show you what ignorance does."

England snarled under his breath and marched downstairs to make a couple of phone calls. He was going to make sure that America never treated any issue with such flippancy ever again, especially when it concerned his health.

It was a lesson that was long overdue.

* * *

A loud snore reverberated in the upstairs bedroom. The perpetrator behind the act only shifted underneath the bedcovers when he began to grow overheated under the smothering blankets, kicking back the material and finally stretching to start off his morning the _right _way. It was 9:30; a perfectly reasonable time to wake up on one's day off in the middle of winter.

America sighed loudly, rotating his shoulders and cracking his neck before happily clamoring out of bed and into the bathroom to comb his hair and brush his teeth. He admired himself for a few extra moments in the mirror, frowning darkly at his cowlick. Personally, he'd never really appreciated that stubborn bit of hair on the top of his head; it made him look far more childish than he liked to regard himself as.

After making sure that all of his customary practices of proper hygiene had been tended to, America made his way out of the bathroom, changed out of his sleeping attire, and went down the stairs, nearly forgetting he had company waiting for him.

That's when it hit him.

It was quiet.

_Too quiet._

With England in the house, chaos should have been raining down with British fury, leaving America scrambling to the refrigerator for comfort food to indulge in.

Instead, all was still. The walls seemed to be holding their breath because even inanimate objects in the vicinity seemed to know that a silent Britain was _never_ a happy Britain.

Vigilantly and with barely suppressed trepidation, America tiptoed his way across the living room, raising his eyebrows at the man sitting stiffly on the couch. Careful blue eyes flashed over the green, but the older man seemed to be avoiding his gaze, acting completely immobile and unresponsive as if he were paralyzed in place.

"Hey, England? You okay, man?"

…_Nothing… _

With a slight shrug of the shoulders, America made his way for the kitchen, deciding that now would be a good time to get some breakfast (especially since England was in such a docile/comatose state).

He jumped at the chance—ripping open the refrigerator door and looking for anything that could possibly have been salvaged during England's tyrannical excursion through his previous foodstuffs. As expected, most of his sugary snacks had been disposed of yesterday.

But—like any good food hoarder—America had a secret stash of sugary treats stashed all around the house. After a quick scan through the hidden compartments and crevices of his refrigerator, he was able to recover his "Paradise Punch" GoGurt, but grieved over the admitted loss of his "Soarin' Strawberry Lemonade" flavor of Kool-Aid.

If he thought about it, he was pretty sure there was a can of Pizza flavored Pringles at the bottom of his desk drawer.

But before he could mull things over any longer or actually snag something for breakfast, there was a knock at the door.

Cocking his head to the side, America put down the yogurt in his hands and retreated into the living room, planning to rush to the foyer to see who was visiting at a time like this. Hadn't his boss cancelled all of his meetings?

But just as he was heading out of the doorway of the living room, a firm hand gripped his wrist, pulling him back abruptly.

Puzzled, America's eyes finally locked onto England's, casting a thorny feeling in his stomach in response. England was giving him a _barbed_ sort of look, fully intending to inflict pain on the victim of his gaze.

America nearly pouted. He'd been on the receiving end of that look many times in the past, and it had never signified good news. It was always reprimanding and downhearted all at once, chilling America's heart.

"You're going to _learn_," England warranted sleekly, releasing America's wrist and pushing past him to answer the door.

Bracing himself, America took a few steps back, avoiding whatever beast was lurking beyond the wooden door. He wandered back into the center of the living room and plopped himself on the furthest end of the couch.

The door had barely creaked open before a booming voice broke through the barrier.

"**HALLO! Hurry, shield your eyes from the awesome me!" **

America's body seemed to freeze for a moment before he ducked his head between his knees and covered his ears with his hands heatedly. "ENGLAND! What have you done? Please, I beg you… Anyone but _him_… Look, I'm sorry, dude. I'll keep reading that book you gave me and I'll take those nasty pills and I'll eat healthy and I'll take my morning jogs as long as you just kick him _out_!"

England bit down hard on his lower lip, forcing down a sardonic smile. The man shook his head solemnly; America had lost all of his chances and lifelines.

Prussia invited himself in, flaunting his way into the living room with an arrogant grin. "Long time no see, Faulpelz*," he regarded America mockingly, hovering over the doubled-over man.

America ran a shaking hand through his hair and raised his head a few inches up from his lap. "Sup, Prussia? What brings you here?"

Prussia picked at a piece of lint on his shirt before continuing. "An itty bitty birdie came looking for my help to turn you into a muscle man again! I told him that if I did it once before, then I could do it again. Shit, I could do anything with the right amount of funding," he said with a wink.

America shuddered, remembering the wintry days during the Revolutionary War when he'd been out training with Prussia. He'd crawled through mud and snow, climbed countless amounts of walls and trees, hiked for miles until his legs were numb, and performed push-ups up to the point where his abs were attempting to pop out of his very skin.

He did _not_ miss those days, but he supposed it had been a necessary evil to win the war.

"Your boss should've known better than to put this pipsqueak in charge of toughening you up; he was the one who raised you into a spoiled brat in the first place," Prussia went on, disregarding England's icy look from across the room. "Remember all those times you cried during training because you wanted him to carry you back home? Lucky I was there to straighten you out or your ass would've been crushed a hell of a long time ago."

England looked mildly surprised and amused by this, but kept his gaze focused on the window to the right of him, pretending as though he couldn't hear a word that was being spoken.

Prussia straightened his posture and ripped America off of the couch by the shoulders, shoving him across the room and giving his round butt a good kick. "I missed doing that," he snickered as America gawked at him in a scandalized manner. "Follow me, kid. We're taking a little fieldtrip."

America tried to turn around to meet England's gaze, but that just earned him another ruthless shove forward. "Stop that!" he barked at Prussia, nostrils flaring before he hopped into his winter boots by the doorway. He pulled his coat off of the coatrack and shrugged it on, messily wrapping his scarf around his neck and slipping on his black, leather gloves. Then, he opened the front door and walked to his car, hoping Prussia and England wouldn't force him to walk to their destination.

"I'll drive!" Prussia offered, causing America to both feel a bit relieved albeit high-strung all over again. Prussia certainly wasn't the most _conscientious _driver he knew, and there was no way he was going to give him his car keys.

Fortunately, England finally stepped in after that, eyes commanding. "No, I'm driving. No arguments or I'll contact Germany."

"Killjoy," Prussia grumbled. "Little bro doesn't scare me."

England scoffed with another well repressed smile before sliding into the driver's seat. Wordlessly, America tossed him the keys to his car, feeling more at ease knowing that it was highly unlikely that England would ever get them stuck in a fender-bender.

"Wow, England! You're actually driving on the proper side this time!" he later commented in feigned awe.

England simply gave him his signature piercing look before continuing on, ignoring America's outburst as if he were dealing with a loud-mouthed early adolescent.

Prussia slid into the passenger's seat before America could get the chance, sticking his tongue out at the younger nation with a pleased look.

"Hey! No fair, I always ride shotgun when England drives," America trilled before resigning himself to the back with an exasperated exhale of warm breath against the window. He drew shapes with his glove-clad fingers on the window, first making a sad smiley face and then writing out an S.O.S sign for passing cars to read.

He still didn't know where they were going, but he knew he wasn't going to like it no matter where it was. Still, his caffeine-deficient mind couldn't care less at the moment. The warmth of the car was soothing as he rested his head against the window and watched fellow New Yorkers scrambling along the streets.

He had to admit, England had a pretty good sense of direction considering he'd only driven around the city a handful of times in the past and refused to use a GPS. America was going to offer him help if he deemed the man needy of some, but he seemed perfectly able and at ease, never coming off as lost.

Overall, the drive was pretty uneventful except for Prussia's constant need to change the radio station every five seconds. They pulled up in front of a NYSC (New York Sports Club), which America was actually rather thankful for. Knowing the other two occupants sharing the car with him, he could've been brought someplace far worse, such as a hospital. He didn't mind seeing the familiar gym logo, considering he used to attend sessions at least twice a week. Honestly, he was kind of ashamed that he'd quit working out after winter came along. He'd gotten too lazy to get up early in the morning to make his way over to the gym in the frigid environment. That was probably part of the reason why he was trapped in this disaster.

He'd never been to this gym specifically, but most sport centers were alike regardless.

"Excellent timing," England noted, cutting the engine and getting out of the car after managing to parallel-park the car flawlessly. He took out a duffel bag out of the trunk before continuing.

Prussia followed in suit, mischievously watching as America lugged himself out of the backseat and over to the entrance of the gym with England. He raced in front of the pair and opened the door for them saying, "Ladies first."

"Who're you callin' lady, old man?" America countered, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them in his pocket.

"At least I'm not a little kid," Prussia grinned, ruffling America's hair like he had always done to him during the Revolution. "No back sass toward your senior citizens, kid. Didn't your parents teach you to respect elders?"

"Nope," America replied, his wet, snow-covered boots squeaking against the tiled floor of the gym's lobby. "Then again, England didn't really know how to raise kids at the time. He was still practicing on me, so it's no wonder I ended up a little screwed up just like him. His brothers didn't know how to raise him either…"

England stopped abruptly, spinning on his heel to face America before wrapping his cold hands around the young man's neck. He'd taken a vow of silence to survive this trip, but it was becoming very hard to keep _that _up.

America gasped, stunned by the sudden physical violence. His eyes flickered to England's, frightened as he struggled to catch his breath.

Prussia had stopped as well, suddenly growing very serious in an uncharacteristic way. He noticed a security guard eyeing them from afar and was careful to transition into using their human names. "Stop, Arthur. People are staring."

With a dawn of recognition, England's pale hands fell from America's throat, green eyes ever-so-slightly apologetic but too stubborn to openly voice it. His eyes scanned America's form as the nation coughed and inhaled deeply once more, still petrified from that little display.

He didn't realize that England's brothers were such a sensitive topic.

"A-Arthur?" America blinked guardedly, the man's figure still very close to him.

England sighed, squeezing America's shoulder apologetically before turning away again. "Fix that scarf of yours," he added, retreating.

America looked down at his soggy boots, storing this memory into the back of his mind for future analysis. Until then, he followed Prussia and England forward like a puppy, working his way over to the counter. He watched as England explained to a brutish man that the three of them wanted to sign up for membership, exchanging various information before England regarded America directly.

"Aren't you already signed up at one of these establishments?" he asked curiously.

America started, trying to come up with a plausible excuse but finding none. "Umm… Yeah, I was, but not anymore. I cancelled my membership when I stopped going every week… Figured I'd just go again in the spring and sign-up all over again."

England's face remained stoic before he nodded and turned back to the receptionist. Each of them paid the respective amounts of money for their memberships, and were given a pamphlet full of a set of guidelines and tips before they were directed to the locker rooms where they would be able to leave their stuff and change.

America frowned as they entered the nearly empty locker room. There were two other people around opposite corners of the room, evident by the rustling of clothes and snapping of locks.

"I didn't bring a lock or a change of clothes, or sneakers… Or anything actually…" he finally admitted, perching himself on the bench between two rows of lockers.

England dropped the duffel bag he had taken out of the car by America's feet. "I found your car keys on the table while you were sleeping and packed everything in this bag before tossing it in the back."

America nodded, still feeling awkward around England after the incident between them. He hefted the bag onto the bench and unzipped it, fishing out two sets of gym clothes for each of them and two locks (blue for America and red for England). Prussia had, of course, already been wearing sneakers and sweatpants before they'd even arrived. He hadn't brought a lock with him, so he merely stowed his coat into America's locker without any hesitation or permission, much to the younger nation's chagrin.

"Thanks," America spat sarcastically at the Prussian with a scowl as he tied his sneakers snuggly. He still wasn't too keen on working out today, but he knew resistance would be futile by this point. He'd just have to go along with whatever Prussia and England had up their sleeves.

"Sure, kid," Prussia smiled, messing up the golden hair set in front of him again. He slammed the locker door shut and clicked America's lock to a close before pushing the young nation out of the room. "Time to get to work."

America groaned. Was he ever going to be awarded his breakfast? Actually, he'd missed breakfast a while ago… He wouldn't mind brunch in that case.

The pair exited the locker room with England trailing behind before entering the main area containing various exercise machines. It smelled like sweat from every direction, and America scrunched his nose up a bit as he adjusted to the scent before following Prussia toward the bikes.

"Let's get you started on this, and then it's time for you to hop on the treadmill. After that, we'll work on weight-training so that you can get awesome guns like mine," Prussia bragged, outstretching an arm and flexing his bicep. With a roll of the eyes and a chuckle, America plopped himself on the seat of the exercise bike, adjusting the level of intensity on the screen in front of him.

"Pft," Prussia huffed, swatting America's hands away and fixing the level of difficulty himself. "You need a good _uphill_ ride."

America wanted to protest but kept his thoughts to himself. He didn't want Prussia to turn it up to the maximum. He could just lower the level when Prussia had his back turned. He sat back in the seat so that the chair could properly monitor his heart rate as he did the exercise, making sure not to overdo it. After that, Prussia stepped away for a moment to take care of some _errand_, leaving England to keep an eye on America to make sure he didn't cheat. The man sat in the bike opposite of him, deciding that if he was going to go through all of the effort of signing himself up at the gym to help train America, he might as well take advantage of the opportunity for himself as well.

The two cycled in heavy silence the entire time, still unsure of how to approach each other. Both wanted to break the ice, but neither could bring themselves to do it.

After about fifteen minutes on the bikes, Prussia returned, hiding something behind his back as he acknowledged America. "Get on the treadmill, kid."

America did as he was told, finding the nearest one and turning it on. Prussia set a steep incline for him and started him off at a low speed before walking to the head of the machine and leaning on the metal railing with a coy smile. From behind his back, he produced a bag of "Oreo Cakesters", waving them in front of the American innocently.

"You finish this work-out session and you can have these babies," Prussia bribed casually.

From behind America, England glowered. "Don't you think that's setting a bad precedent? It'll make him think that every time he exercises, he can have junk food, which defeats the purpose."

"Oh, Arthur," Prussia said theatrically, slapping a hand on the man's back. "You can't cut the kid off cold turkey. Give the schlingel* some hope," he persuaded, increasing the speed on the treadmill by another level as America began to warm up to the exertion. "One snack isn't going to kill him."

"Why can't it be a less processed snack at least?" England argued.

"Because he won't want to eat it," Prussia explained simply, heading back to his place in front of America. "Honestly, Arthur, let the big boys work out while you go check out that ladies' aerobic lesson next door."

England's cheeks blushed into a bright crimson as he clenched his hands into fists and grit his teeth. "Fine, do whatever you like, but don't expect me to sit around and watch."

"Aerobics lesssssoooon," Prussia sing-sang playfully.

England ignored him, deciding to go to the leg extension machines that were part of the weight-training section. He was regretting having called Prussia for backup now. He hadn't expected the man to turn against him!

Meanwhile, America was beginning to work up a sweat, face growing slightly rosy as Prussia increased the speed once more, causing the nation to groan heavily in response.

"Just keep your eyes on the prize, kiddo," Prussia urged, flaunting the Oreos again. "Speaking of prizes…" he trailed off, casting his eyes sideways to a young woman who was at the bench press station.

America grinned, pearly white teeth and blue eyes standing out even more because of his flushed face. "She's cute."

"Yup, that's some prize she's got behind her," Prussia muttered as the woman stood up and bent over to stretch her legs.

"Don't stare," America laughed, slapping Prussia upside the head. "She's one of my citizens. You better treat her with some respect."

Prussia grinned devilishly as well. "I've never dated an American woman before."

"'S about time then," America responded, slurring his words because of growing fatigue. He ran a hand over his sweaty forehead.

Suddenly, England's voice bellowed from his spot across the gym. "I can still see you two! You should both be ashamed!"

Prussia and America smiled at each other before bursting out into a fit of laughter, causing America to trip while running, sending him crashing into the handles in front of him as well as the adjustment screen. While he fought to bring his laughter to a manageable level, Prussia turned the treadmill off, saving America's poor legs as the nation tried to collect himself. He'd nearly somersaulted himself off of the machine.

England had returned to them a moment later and dragged them out of the room, claiming that it was about time for a lunch break.

All that seemed to matter though was that America had earned his Oreos fair and square even though the work-out had ended prematurely.

Maybe having Prussia around wasn't such a bad idea anymore.

But England begged to differ.

* * *

Faulpelz= lazybones

Schlingel= rascal


	4. A Pair of Dummkopfs

**Author's Note:** Let me just state that my high school assigned me weight-training as my mandatory Phys-Ed course for four semesters! I spent so much time working-out only to be sorely disappointed in the fact that I never became the body-builder that I had initially pictured myself transforming into. xD I cheated on most of the techniques, so I suppose that held me back from achieving a strongly desired six-pack. I did, however, pick up a few things while in the class, which I never thought would come in handy until now. All in all, it was an interesting class to have, even though I came home in agony each day and could barely stand upright without my legs quivering in pain. For some motivation, I kept persuading myself that I had to work to impress and to prove to the world that the youth of America isn't completely inactive and lazy!

There were numerous times when I would hide away in the corner of the room, hop on a bike, and try to ride out the hour without lifting a single weight.

Let's just say that my coach wasn't too impressed with my performance, and kept a close eye on me after that. I didn't dare to touch a bike again after I'd been caught. I was awarded with a 90 on my report card in gym and some teasing comments for my cheek throughout the course. x) Truly, wonderful times.

* * *

_Day 3:_

"THE AWESOME ME IS BACK, BRIGHT AND EARLY!"

Go away. Go away. Go away. God, please go away.

"Hallo? Get up, lazy. Time to eat and then back to the gym. Don't let my awesome breakfast go to waste."

The mention of food seemed to work like magic on America. Immediately, the nation's eyes were open and inquiring. He clutched the front of Prussia's t-shirt, pulling him dangerously close. "You made breakfast?"

"Ja. We couldn't let England near the kitchen, could we? Still, the food isn't as awesome as it _could've_ been cause England said it had to be low in cholesterol. We can't risk making you even more unhealthy either," Prussia replied gruffly, poking America's slightly-flabby stomach. The nation wasn't even close to being considered fat, but he did—undeniably—carry a little extra chub under his waistline.

Food was still food, and America happily sat up, brimming with hope as he stood up, fully intending on racing to the kitchen. His hopes were shattered, however, when his foot ached in protest, causing him to sit back down.

"Oww," America hissed, rubbing his foot briskly.

Prussia gave him a questioning look, furrowing his eyebrows. "What happened to you?"

"Dunno… My foot kinda hurts, I guess. Maybe it was just a cramp from all that running yesterday," America guessed plaintively. "Now that I think about it, maybe I'll skip out on the breakfast."

Prussia looked astounded at America's statement. He'd never seen the nation pass down food in his entire life, not even when he was exhausted after their training sessions during the Revolution. Trying not to show his worry, he left the room and went to track down England, leaving America alone in his bedroom.

Testing the waters, America stood up once more, gently placing his foot on the carpet. He could stand on it just fine, but as soon as he moved to take a step, pain exploded through the appendage. He flinched as England swept into the room with an antsy Prussia circling behind.

America swiftly sat back down, hiding his feet within the bedcovers. "Hey, England. What's—"

"Let me see it," England ordered, holding out a hand as he pulled up a chair to America's bedside. After the nation made no move to carry out the demand, England narrowed his eyes. "I don't like to be kept waiting, America, you know that."

Who would've thought that this entire dieting experience would bring back so many dusty memories?

Like England's faithful colony again, America pulled his sock-covered foot out from under the comforter, extending it out for England to see. The man placed the offering in his lap and carefully removed the sock, running his fingers over the skin methodically. He focused as if he were working on a science experiment.

America had forgotten how knowledgeable England was in first-aid.

Reluctantly, he spoke up, "I think I just had a foot cramp or something from working-out yesterday. Really, it's nothing, so should just—OW! Shit, that hurt!"

England shook his head with a weary sigh as he prodded a particularly tender spot of muscle. "Or maybe this has something to do with how you nearly killed yourself on that treadmill yesterday because of your usual antics. Honestly, both of you are hazards to yourselves. This is what you get for sticking your nose into the wrong places."

America smiled softly, pleasantly surprised that England was sounding annoyed and more like himself again after yesterday's events. "Yeah, I guess I do kind of deserve it. Sorry, bro."

England stiffened at the "brother" reference, but continued in coming up with the diagnosis. "It's just a twisted ankle, so you can stop whining about it. An adhesive bandage and ice is all we can do for it. It's swelled up quite a bit, though."

America frowned, trying to finally pull his foot away from England's proximity, but the man wouldn't let him go yet. "No more jogs for the next few days, but that doesn't mean you can't do _plenty_ of other exercises," England prescribed as Prussia left and returned with a first-aid kit. The smarting ankle was hastily bandaged and secured before England released America and tidied up the area. Once everything was put in its rightful place, the three headed downstairs for breakfast, during which America hobbled into the kitchen and sat at the table eagerly, appetite back now that he was no longer in any severe pain.

A warm sensation fluttered in America's heart as he dug into Prussia's wholegrain waffles that were coated in blueberry syrup. It wasn't overly sweet, but compared to the food America had been eating for the past two days, it was heaven on earth. He wolfed it down with his orange juice contentedly.

"You're going to give him diabetes, Prussia. It's not loaded with cholesterol, but that doesn't mean it's healthy," England disapproved as he sipped his morning tea and offered Prussia a cup as well for the sake of being polite. The man readily accepted because tea was the only thing that England couldn't botch.

"It's under three-hundred calories, and it doesn't have a lot of sugar. Sorry for trying to give things a little flavor! You've been starving the kid for the past two days, haven't you?" Prussia accused, grinning victoriously as America gulped and licked his lips free of syrup. It was nice to see someone enjoying his glorious cuisine.

"Relax, England. Let the kid live a little. Dieting doesn't have to be a punishment or death sentence. Here, have some blueberries," Prussia said invitingly to England, presenting the bowl of fruit as a peace offering. "You know you want some."

England crossed his arms and turned his head away like a petulant child. How very gentlemanly of him… "No, thank you," he punctuated.

"Fine then," Prussia grumbled, tossing a blueberry into the air and catching in his mouth perfectly.

"Nice one," America smirked, finishing up. "Toss one at me, dude."

England scowled roughly. "I don't thin—"

"Catch!" Prussia shouted, tossing the berry across the kitchen. America stood up from his seat and took a few steps back, managing to catch the fruit in his mouth before he tumbled to the floor, chuckling loftily as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"America!" England roared, sprinting to his side and helping him up like a fussy mother-bird who was prone to ruffling her feathers. "Do you _want _to break that ankle?"

America's mood had brightened up considerably after a good meal, causing him to smile goofily at England in a teasing manner. "I don't know… I'm not too sure yet. I haven't had an X-ray in a while."

England scoffed sharply. "Well, maybe a CAT scan is in order then; for your brain?"

Prussia remained to be an onlooker, chewing on another blueberry as he witnessed England guide America over to the couch and put a few pillows under his foot to elevate it.

"When you're done mothering him," Prussia began with a sneer, "maybe we can get a move on to the gym?"

"In a moment," England brushed him off absent-mindedly, getting an icepack from the freezer and putting it on America's ankle before scouring the room for the duffel bag he had used the day before. "I'll pack our things and then we can go."

Prussia clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Ja, bring some diapers and formula in case he needs that too."

England's face seemed to permanently be turning red, because the man seemed to be livid around the clock lately. "Excuse me for trying to be well-prepared."

Prussia rubbed his chin and came closer to where England was standing by the storage closet. He made sure America was in his own world and wasn't eavesdropping before he spoke again. "He's not your colony anymore," he whispered matter-of-factly.

"You think I don't know that?" England whispered back, shuffling through some bags at the base of the closet.

Prussia shook his head. "Nein, I don't think you do."

England tuned the Prussian out. "Where's that damn duffle bag?" he swore, overturning a few items.

"You forget that I have a younger bruder as well. I know that's it's difficult to separate the past and present, but you must if you ever want your companionship with America to last," Prussia continued importantly. "You two cannot be so hostile toward each other."

"We're not hostile," England mumbled, turning his head to see America still lying on the couch and fumbling around with the slushy icepack while some horrible reality T.V show played in the background.

It was Prussia's turn to scowl. "Then do all bruders try to choke each other in public?"

England's ears went pink in shame as he finally found the bag. "Sometimes, I suppose."

Prussia stuck his foot in the door of the closet before England could close it completely, arms crossed against his chest expectantly. "You see if you can forgive _yourself_, and then apologize to _him_. I fight with mein bruder as well, but not like this. This is a century-old battle that you have lost and must come to terms with. You heal his injuries one day and cause them the next! Stop moping around and be a goddamn bruder, again!"

England sighed, backing away from the closet and heading upstairs to gather what he needed. He hated Prussia for opening old wounds. He'd thought he'd stitched them up long ago, but it turned out that they had been bleeding the whole time.

He'd just pretended that he hadn't noticed.

* * *

"C'mon, chicken legs, give me twenty more reps or no M&Ms for lunch today," Prussia demanded, watching as America worked on the assisted pull-up machine, dragging his body along with extra weight above the steel bar.

America grunted in response, shakily forcing his arms to keep holding on as he propelled himself upward. "I can't hold on much longer."

"Yes, you can. If I didn't think you could do it, I wouldn't have ordered you to do it," Prussia said patiently, voice firm as he checked his watch. "Just fifteen more."

America huffed once more, hot breath rubbing against his sweaty bangs. "Where's Arthur when you need him?"

"I told you, Arthur's having some 'me' time after I made him go to the yoga class downstairs. He'll be done soon, but he needs to loosen up. Now, stop complaining and give me ten more. Your whining and temper-tantrums don't work on me, remember? It didn't work two-hundred years ago, and it still won't work now. Seven more," Prussia droned, standing nearby. Weight-training always required a spotter—someone to aid the person who was working out—to adjust the amount of weight and to assist the person if they lost control of what they were doing. Sometimes, the spotter had to point out proper technique as well, and, in this case, the spotter provided some motivation.

Prussia popped a bubble with the watermelon gum he was chewing. "Four more, kid. You're almost done."

"Three…"

"Two…"

America winced. "Owwwww…"

"One..."

America removed his arms from the machine slowly, trying not to bang the attached weights. Then, he got off of the mechanism cautiously, minding his twisted ankle on his way down. Prussia passed him a bottle of cold water along with a small towel and had him sit on a nearby bench to rest for a few minutes.

"Alright, you get a five-minute break. Then it's bench press and we can call it a day for lunch," Prussia promised, watching as America chugged down the water. "And slow down, kid. Save some water for the fish."

America slowed down considerably, seemingly remembering that he was supposed to take small sips lest he get sick from bloating his stomach with water too quickly.

"That's better," Prussia praised, preparing the bench press bar by adding an equal amount of weights to each side.

America dried his face and the back of his neck with the towel, cooling down as he watched Prussia calculate the next set-up. The man really seemed to know what he was doing, always pushing America right up to the limit, but never past it. He could seem ruthless at times (especially when America had been younger), but whatever he did was usually well thought out. No wonder Prussia had always had such a terrifying military all those centuries ago.

England walked into the room then, taking in the setting as his eyes landed on the pair of ruffians that he was looking for. He approached them indifferently, but America could've sworn that he looked a little down-hearted. He couldn't exactly place why the man appeared to be sad.

"Arthur," Prussia acknowledged with a wave. "Perfect timing. Alfred was just about to start on the bench press. How about you help him out? I'm kind of tired of being his spotter."

England looked a bit taken aback by the request, wondering why Prussia suddenly wanted him to take charge.

"No, it's alright. You seem to know what you're doing," England dismissed casually, hoping not to get too involved.

Prussia pursed his lips. "No, I really think you should be the one to do this. Alfred needs to get used to having more than one spotter."

England bit his tongue in reluctance before finally nodding. "I'm not sure what to do though…"

"Ja, no worries. I'll guide you both through it," Prussia reassured, gesturing for England to come and take his place. "First you need to stand in front of the bar."

England did as he was directed, never questioning the instructions, which was pretty shocking.

"Gut job. Now, Alfred, you lie down and put your hands on the bar," Prussia ordered, watching from the opposite end of the bench.

"I've bench pressed before, Gil," America grumbled, following the order.

"Ja, maybe, but you're still holding your hands too close together. That's why you need a spotter, dummkopf. They're supposed to tell you if you're doing it right," Prussia pointed out sternly. "Arthur, direct his hands so that they are a little more than shoulder width apart."

England frowned, hesitantly prying America's fingers off of the bar and moving his hands further apart.

"Now, Arthur, lift the bar up and pass it to him so that he can start the exercise. When he's done, take the bar from him and place it back. If he starts to struggle, help him out. Got it?" Prussia asked thoughtfully, looking forward to seeing the two brothers bond a little. He'd purposely put a little too much weight for America to handle for an extended period of time so that England would have to intervene. If the two could just learn to trust each other again, maybe there'd be hope for them to reconcile properly.

England finally nodded to the instructions he'd been given and asked America if he was ready before passing the bar to him, watching carefully as the young nation's super strength came into play.

Prussia had to admit that although America's endurance might not have been the greatest, his strength was pretty admirable. Working on the endurance factor, Prussia hoped to tire the nation out a little bit, especially since he'd only had five minutes of break-time in between the two work-outs.

Prussia popped his gum again, noticing that it was losing its flavor before critiquing Alfred's posture. "Chest up, kid. Your feet also need to be more far apart on the ground, and stop looking at the bar; you're teetering all over the place and making me dizzy. Focus on a spot on the ceiling."

America took the advice, straightening up as Arthur held his hands nearby to lift the bar back up just in case he was needed.

"And your butt stays glued to the bench, brat. Stop cheating! It makes the distance shorter and the bench press easier, but you're going to fuck up your back. Put your butt back down!" Prussia barked, trying to keep the American from hurting himself. It seemed that the nation had many creative ways of possibly injuring himself by always finding loopholes in technique. Well, Prussia wasn't going to allow it. Structured technique was there for a reason.

"How many more?" America asked breathily as he inhaled.

"Just keep going until I say to stop."

"But you always give me a number of—"

"Just do it."

America scoffed, chest heaving as he continued on, sweat beading along his forehead once more. Prussia stepped closer so that he could make sure all was in order, standing beside Arthur for a second before kneeling down next to America and drumming his fingers on the leather material of the bench where America's head was resting.

"Steady your breathing and you won't have to dig your head into the bench. Nicht gut," he commented, noticing that America's endurance was beginning to deplete just as he had expected it to. "Keep going."

With that, Prussia stepped away again, standing back as America worked. He noted that the speed at which the nation was moving was growing quicker, which meant that he was beginning to feel urgency in completing the exercise faster.

He'd seen America do this when he was still a colony, rushing to complete the repetitions as he came closer to the end of his energy reserves. Prussia would scold him and tell him that quality over quantity was much more important, and that he was going to waste his strength if he didn't slow down.

This time, however, he said nothing in the hopes that England would take note of the same thing that he had. He had to allow England to spot for America from this point on, or the two would never survive this dieting experience together.

Thankfully, England's perception had not withered after all. "Alfred," he started vigilantly. "Do you need to stop?"

"No, I'm fine," America replied in a rush, sweating more profusely now.

"Are you sure about that?" England queried with more force, trying to get the point across that he was the one who wanted America to stop.

"Prussia… Hasn't said to stop yet…"

England glowered. "Who gives a rat's arse about Prussia? If you need to take a break, then you should."

Prussia tried not to look too displeased with England's comment, holding back his scathing reply to watch the unfolding scene.

_Listen to him, you stupid boy_…

America began seesawing with the bar again, losing concentration as he grew too exhausted to continue staring at the ceiling. After a few more repetitions, his grip on the bar was loosening, and England could tell instantly. Because of this, he was prepared when Alfred abruptly locked his arms, allowing the bar to nearly collide with his chest. The metal would have smashed America's ribcage and probably shattered both his pride and bones had England not snatched the bar with hasty reflexes, sighing a breath of relief upon finding that America was unharmed.

"Idiot," England snarled, placing the bar back in its rightful place. "That's enough for today. You could've cracked your ribs in half."

America's heart rate quickened, eyes blinking drowsily as he realized what he had done. He'd thought he was a goner for a second there.

"Ja, he's right. Enough for now. My awesome stomach needs some awesome food. Let's go!" Prussia's voice cut through the awkward silence cleanly.

Upon seeing that both America and England were still preoccupied with staring each other down, Prussia rolled his eyes and popped another, obnoxiously loud bubble. "How did that yoga class work out for you, Arthur?"

"The one that you forcibly dragged me to?" England asked rhetorically, finally breaking his and America's gaze.

"Nein. The _other _one," Prussia backfired with enthusiastic sarcasm.

England opened his mouth to say something scornful, but stopped, bringing it to a quick close.

Prussia smiled smugly as the trio exited the main training area. "I see it helped."

* * *

Jeez, how America suddenly appreciated Prussia's presence. Thanks to the man, he had been eating like a king all day! Perhaps some of the food was still bland and much too healthy for his liking, but his meals had been much better than the frugal ones that he'd been choking down for forty-eight hours before the Prussian's arrival.

He'd received the promised M&Ms as a reward along with another sandwich on strictly whole-grain bread. Lean ham, swiss cheese and tomatoes with a dash of mustard were supplied for him at a café that was just down the block.

Meanwhile, Prussia was still defending the food choices that he'd made for America. "Arthur, he has to eat, especially since he is exercising more now. You cannot expect him to stay on the diet that _you_ had planned out for him. Mine is much more _realistic. _You know that I'm right and that my plan is awesome. What you're doing is the equivalent of starving a soldier. Famished soldiers can't battle, dummkopf!"

England wearily rested his chin in his hand, nibbling on his bagel. He was not going to concede to Prussia of all people. Then, remembering something, he rummaged around in his coat pocket, passing a bottle of medication over to America across the table.

"Take two of those when you're done," he reminded, leaning back in his chair before sipping some more tea.

America frowned, face drooping upon seeing the disgusting pills again.

"Don't worry, I'll make you schnitzel later. Mine is better than mein bruder's. You are what you eat, which is why I'm more awesome than him," Prussia encouraged, taking the opportunity to show off once more.

England downed the rest of his tea. "I don't think so. The last thing he needs is fried meat."

Prussia smirked. "I never said it would be fried, Spaßverderber*. I can make it baked as well."

"He's American, stop corrupting him with German cuisine."

"Says the one who probably poisoned him with British food when he was young."

"What's wrong with my food?"

"Nothing… Nothing specifically anyway, except it's completely wrong and totally unawesome!"

"That's not even a word, and who are you to judge?"

"I wasn't judging, I was stating a fact."

"How dare y—"

"GUYS!" America interjected, separating the two. "Your food is fine, Arthur. And yeah, I'd wanna try that schnitzel later, Gil. Thanks for the offer. I'm sure it's as awesome as you say it is."

Prussia huffed at England. "At least you didn't completely taint the kid's taste."

"But would it kill you to season your food more?" America inquired with a long sigh.

"You ignorant, little brat! You're one to talk! When will you finally appreciate _culture_?"

"Maybe when you get that stick out of your—"

"Warten Sie! Wait!" Prussia demanded, putting his hand over America's mouth to muffle the proceeding words.

England silently seethed and sulked across the table consequently.

Prussia smirked wickedly once more, red eyes glinting.

He had hope for those two.

So, he was going to find a way to mend what had been shattered if it was the last thing he did.

_That_, and he was going to train America out of his old habits of sitting around like a lazy spud all day.

* * *

Spaßverderber= spoilsport.


	5. Long Awaited Hoopla

_Author's Note: It's amazing how much I get done when I'm sick and debilitated._

* * *

_Day 4:_

_America couldn't help but notice that things were finally starting to get interesting. _

"Okay, dummkopfs, it's time we start _seriously_ working out," Prussia announced that morning while changing in the locker room of the gym. "Since Mr. Flabby Arms over here can't jog like a man because of his weak foot, we're going to do some cardio without running."

America slammed his locker closed with a scowl. "My arms aren't flabby!"

Prussia brushed off America's denial, making his way for the door with his two companions in tow. "Anyway, I think I've got an awesome solution."

"You really should work on broadening the list of adjectives you use on a daily basis," England huffed, shoulders stiff and head bowed peevishly as he donated his five-cents to the conversation. Regardless, he let Prussia take the lead and followed, sure that no matter what the man had in store for them, he wasn't going to like it.

And, lo and behold, Prussia led them into a stuffy room with a rattling air conditioner that contained about twenty, hyperactive children. At the head of the area, stood a young woman who could not have been more than twenty-six-years-old. She had red hair and warm brown eyes paired with a bright smile that lit up the entire room as she welcomed the three men to the rest of the group.

"Thank you all once more for volunteering to help lead the children's work-out session due to the shortage of chaperones. Your complementary sweatshirts will be delivered by next week. I'm Aubrey by the way," the woman introduced, shaking hands with each member of the little trio.

When she finally turned her back for a moment to retrieve something, England and America glared at Prussia, both livid and embarrassed.

"Volunteers?" America blustered uncertainly, shaking Prussia by the shoulders. "Why would you sign us up for this?"

Prussia removed America's hands from his person nonchalantly before saying, "The committee needed the help. We get to help the little rascals, get free sweatshirts, and watch this good looking woman lead the class. Why _wouldn't_ we sign-up for this?"

Aubrey returned with some name tags that had their names on them and stuck the corresponding ones onto each man's shirt before beginning the class at the front of the room again. She clasped her hands together cheerfully and signaled for everyone to quiet down.

"Alright, class, we have some visitors today that are going to help all of you if you need it, but chances are that you're going to have to tell _them_ what to do, okay?"

A few of the children snickered, craning their necks to get a look at the men who were each at least two feet taller than themselves before turning back to the teacher and nodding fervently.

"Right then, first, everyone needs to find themselves a partner, if you don't already have one."

Immediately, America wrapped his arms around England's torso and pulled him close, smiling coyly. "Wanna be my partner, Artie?"

England visibly flushed, trying to snake himself out of the American's hold desperately. "Unhand me, this instant! I'd rather be on my own, thank you very much!"

"That's not an option though," America sulked, but set England free and left him to fuss over his wrinkled clothes.

"Fine then, but must you be so flamboyant about it?" England hissed in response, hitting the back of America's head admonishingly as the taller man chuckled joyfully.

Just then, a little girl about three feet across from them put her hand on her hips and wagged her finger at them. "There's no fighting in class!

America mustered the most serious face he could manage, prodding England in the side teasingly with his elbow. "Yeah, Artie, no fighting in class! Gosh, can't you follow the rules for once?"

England's face simply colored to new heights once more as he bit his tongue and tried to keep quiet, directing his attention to where Prussia was still partner-less. Lucky for him, Aubrey decided that the two of them would be partners for the next hour or so, leaving Prussia in an elated state.

Then, the class commenced once more after the short intermission.

"Now that everyone has a partner, let's warm up. Let's start with twenty-five jumping jacks."

The room exploded with the noise of falling feet as the children leapt into the air and performed the assigned task, letting out shrilled cries of laughter as they chatted with one another in small social groups.

America, on the other hand, turned his attention to the spectacle that Prussia was making out of himself whenever he surreptitiously stole a glance at his attractive, female partner, eyes goggling at her loose hair and the curve of her breasts. America tried to shoot him a glare of distaste, silently urging him not to be so lewd, but the other nation didn't seem to notice.

"Excellent!" Aubrey chimed, nodding her head approvingly at a pair of students adjacent to her and Prussia. "Next, we have to properly stretch. Everyone reach for your toes and then up towards the ceiling."

England took his opportunity to show off, touching the floor with his hands with complete ease while his legs stayed as straight as wooden posts. When he noticed America's raised eyebrows staring at him in disbelief, he upped the ante and did a handstand.

"Stop showing off," America hastily huffed. "How'd you get to be so flexible anyway?"

"I'm not as uncoordinated as you might believe me to be," England replied from his upside-down position, sounding a little irate and smug at the same time. "I used to dabble in some gymnastics."

America narrowed his eyes and put a hand on his hip. "You don't say?"

Before England could inquire about America's apathetic response, the taller nation's hand reached out and poked England in the posterior side of his knee, sending him fishtailing wildly before crashing to the ground on his backside.

"What was that for?" England barked, rubbing his leg and pushing the hair out of his face.

"For being arrogant," America said passively, but nonetheless offered England a hand to help him up.

The older nation rejected the gesture, standing up by his own accord and dusting off his pants once more before offering Aubrey an apologetic half-smile and curt nod.

Minutes after stretching, the group had moved on to more creative exercises such as hula-hooping. In this field, America excelled, leaving England flustered as he reluctantly maneuvered his hips in a circular motion, feeling completely out of his comfort zone. He imagined that he looked absolutely ridiculous.

"I don't want to use the pink one! Pink is for GIRLS!"

An adamant child at the rear of the room roused some commotion as the last blue hula-hoop was given away, sticking out his tongue at the disdainful color that remained.

Thus, America (not passing up a single opportunity at demonstrating his exaggerated heroics) intervened by walking up to the boy and stating wondrously. "Did someone say pink? No fair, I want the sparkly pink hula-hoop!"

The little boy stuck out his lower lip in a pout. "Fine, you can have it. Pink is not a _cool_ color."

America kept his face neutral all though he found it hilarious that the child wanted to be seen as cool and masculine. Eventually, he settled on making himself look mildly astonished instead. "Who told you that? I think pink is the best color, and it's definitely the coolest. Just think about all the great things that are pink: cotton candy, cherry coke, strawberry milkshakes, pink lemonade, and flamingos! Flamingos are the coolest birds ever! Probably not as cool as the bald eagle, but still… If you don't want the hula-hoop, you can have my _boring_ green one."

The boy rubbed his neck, taking the pink hula-hoop after all of America's enticing commentary. "I-I guess you have a point. I want the hula-hoop now. No one else realizes how cool it is because they're all _babies_."

America smirked, patting the boy's head. "It's all yours, little dude. Trust me; you'll be getting all the chicks with that thing."

"Eww, no! Girls are gross," the boy pronounced importantly. "They have cooties. You have to be careful."

America chuckled breezily. "Thanks for warning me, man, but I think I'll take my chances. Now go back and show everyone how much swag you have."

The boy nodded and rushed away.

England sighed daintily. "Are all American children such cheeky charmers from a young age?"

America grinned proudly and put a hand over his heart.

"What can I say? They get it after me."

* * *

_Day 5:_

"Hey, Prussia, you'll never believe what I found in America's storage closet while I was searching for an extra pillow," England had announced deviously the following morning as America was perusing the _Daily News _on the living room sofa.

"Ja? What is it?" Prussia murmured half-heartedly as he fiddled with something on his phone. He briefly lifted his head up to acknowledge the other nation, sitting up in the familiar armchair which he had plopped into.

In England's outstretched hand was a worn stuffed lion with long whiskers and a fuzzy, white chin. His frizzy mane was complimented by the corduroy top hat sewn to his head. On the underside of the toy's right paw was scrawled _Capt. Kirk_ in black marker.

Prussia's face seemed to beam with exuberance. "West used to have something similar. He refused to sleep without him. He wouldn't let me throw it out, even though the stuffing had come out through the broken seams."

America's head swung upward so quickly that he was sure he had cracked his neck in the process. He tossed the newspaper aside and jumped off the couch, setting out to chase after England.

"Give Captain Kirk back! He's fragile!"

England simply cocked his head to the side with a challenging look in his eyes. "What? This shoddy old toy? Well, I suppose if you want it back, you're going to have to come and get it."

And with that, England sprinted toward the front door, yanking it open and running out into the cold December air without worrying about proper attire. He let out a rare bubble of laughter at seeing America running out in his sleepwear, bathrobe and slippers, ice skating down the slippery driveway before darting after the nation whom he still considered family.

America looked murderous as he tried to catch up to the significant lead which England had attained whilst he himself had been traversing ice. Soon, he was on England's heels, causing the other man to think quickly on his feet before making a sharp left turn at the corner of the street, leaving America to fall back slightly as he reformed his route.

The mad dash continued on for about ten blocks before they had reached a small park, at which point America tackled England to the ground and into the dewy grass, leaving them both wet. A thin covering of leftover snow became a slushy mess underneath their weight, oozing into their clothing.

"Don't get him wet in the snow!" America screeched helplessly, flinging his arm at England and accidentally smacking him in the face as he rescued his childhood companion.

"Alright, take him," England surrendered, getting himself out of the snow before he could get thoroughly drenched. "Honestly, I don't understand why he means so much to you. It's just a silly toy."

America fervently shook his head, looking severely insulted. "He isn't just some toy, Artie. He's Captain Kirk. He used to keep me company whenever…. Never mind. You're right; it's kind of stupid."

England frowned deeply, amusement dissipating. "Go on. I want to understand. I shan't tell anyone if that's what you'd prefer."

America swallowed, brushing some lint off of his little lion. "W-well, you see, whenever you left for Europe, I'd keep Captain Kirk next to me and he'd keep the ghosts and monsters away. He was my brave and heroic lion, even though he doesn't look like much at first glance considering his gentlemanly exterior."

England gave a melancholy smile, realizing that the stuffed lion had been named Captain Kirk and dressed in a top hat for a reason. He symbolically represented England himself and had once brought comfort and reassurance to America when he'd been a colony.

America let out a nervous laugh, shivering from the cold. "Y-Yeah, kind of dumb, right?"

"No, not at all," England replied sympathetically before patting the stuffed animal on the head. "You'll always have your little lion, Alfred."

America graciously smiled, resisting the sudden urge to hug England—his brave lion who had always fought away the monsters, even when America hadn't asked him to.

* * *

_Day 6: (New Year's Eve)_

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

England groaned, massaging his forehead. "Could you keep it down? Some of us are trying to read and keep up to date on worldly affairs."

America visibly wilted, shoulders slumping forward limply. "Oh, England, have a little fun! You're always so stiff and posh."

England's eye twitched, already miffed. "I am _not_—"

"How 'bout we head outta Brooklyn and into Manhattan today? We can take the subway—don't worry, I'll protect you—and you'll do some good ol' sightseeing," America proposed kindly, keeping England from going off on a rant. "Besides, Prussia isn't coming over today since he has other plans, so we can spend some time bonding."

"Bonding?" England queried, setting down _The Economist_ momentarily. "Sorry, but I'd rather not. I've been stuck with you long enough as it is."

America tried to look as crushed as possible, his wide blue eyes glistening ruefully at his former guardian. England couldn't possibly say no to his kicked-puppy expression.

England's jaw tensed as he refused to meet America's gaze. "It's not going to work."

Pretending to give up, America nodded and said, "Alright, then. I guess I can't make you do anything that you don't want to do. I'll just go back to my room and play some videogames or something. Not over Xbox live, of course, since I have no other friends who are available… But oh, well… It's shame because it's such a nice day out…"

England let out a long breath of disbelief for what he was about to do. He stood up and put a hand on America's shoulder firmly.

"Dress warmly. It's cold out," he mumbled indignantly. "And you're paying for the train ride as well as dinner."

America's crestfallen face immediately lit up with mirth once more. "Sure thing, bro."

Needless to say, around twenty minutes later, the pair had walked to the subway station and had caught the next train shortly, considering it was still rush hour. Their train car was rather crowded, but America had been through much worse. In fact, he managed to find an empty seat and offered it to England, hoping it would make him feel a bit more chipper. America stood in front of him, holding onto the railing above him as the train burst with life and swung into motion.

"They always say to give up your seat to the elderly," America teased England lightly, providing him with a cheeky wink in the process.

England rolled his eyes and snuggled further into the depths of his winter coat, brooding over the miserable effects of winter. "Who are you calling elderly? At least I'm not an overgrown child."

America took the hit of the remark with a laugh. "Y'know, it's not always a bad thing to still be a child at heart."

"I beg to differ," England snorted, catching a glimpse out of the window across from him before turning his attention back to his former colony and changing the subject of the conversation. "I do hope you don't plan on dragging me into Times Square. You know that I don't wish to put up with the massive swarms of people waiting for the ball drop."

America glowered before the train came to a harsh stop, causing him to lean down closer to England's sitting form.

"Careful," England cautioned, "don't fall over, you big brute."

Then, a voice came on over the intercom of the train. _"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. We are experiencing train traffic ahead of us, but we should be moving shortly."_

England casted a concerned look at America, who replied with, "Don't worry, this happens all the time."

England swallowed his fear, shutting away his dislike of New York City's mass transit system. He had to admit that the London Underground wasn't the greatest nor tidiest of places, but it certainly never got _this_ filthy or disorganized.

The intercom droned again. _"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a message from the New York City Police Department. If you see something, say something. If you see a suspicious package, inform an MTA employee. Do not keep it to yourself. Bags, backpacks, and other large containers are subject to random search by the police."_

The train began to inch forward again, picking up some speed.

"I can see you cooking up a lecture through your eyes," America pointed out suddenly, breaking England out of his revere. "Considering the amount of people who take the train on a daily basis, the system runs pretty smoothly. Anyway, back to the whole Times Square discussion; I know you don't like big celebrations like these, but you've visited New York so many times, yet you've never seen the ball drop on New Year's, and that is unacceptable!"

England tightened his scarf around his neck. "I just don't understand all of the hype."

"You say that now because you've never tried going! America argued.

"Can't we just watch it on television back at your apartment?"

"It's not the same!"

"You never compromise! Not everyone is blindly going to go along with your schemes."

"It's not a scheme. I just want you to have a good time!"

England shook his head unabatedly. "You expect me to spend the entire day in the city with you—all the way until midnight—just to see a silly ball drop? It's freezing out, it might rain, and I'm certainly in no mood to waste time unnecessarily."

"You think spending time together is a waste?" America asked quietly, trying to guilt-trip England into seeing the situation from his perspective.

England cleared his throat roughly. "N-No, I never said that."

"You implied it though," America insisted just as the train reached the Manhattan Bridge and began to glide across it. "How about we make a bet? If I can get you to have a good time by eight o'clock at night, you'll go see the ball drop with me."

England furrowed his eyebrows skeptically. "And if you can't do it?"

America thought long and hard about a reasonable alternative. "We'll go back to my apartment and you can find ways to torture me by making me drink all those herbal teas that you've been trying to get me to taste. And, I'll follow every single one of your instructions to the letter until our two weeks of spending time together are up."

England smirked, certain that he was going to win. He shook America's hand, signifying the validity of their deal. "Alright, Alfred."

America produced his customary toothy grin.

There was no way he could lose this.

* * *

"Okay, you can open your eyes," America ordered jovially.

England kept his eyes closed securely. "Alfred, I know that we're in Rockefeller Center, we walked out of the train station together. Naturally, I read the signs."

"Just do as I say! I have a bet at stake here!"

With a dry smile, England opened his eyes, blinking rapidly at the sudden exposure to light. When his vision focused, he chuckled. "Ice skating? In the middle of Rockefeller Center?"

"Yup," Alfred nodded excitedly, pulling England forward and into the reception area of the rink. "It's a great way to get some exercise for the day without having to go to a gym. Besides, I haven't been here since Mattie last visited which was back at the beginning of the month. Plus, you've never been here! You're gonna love it. It's a lot nicer at night, but we're kind of stretched for time since I have tons of other stuff to show you."

England couldn't help but feel a little elated at America's eagerness. "But you know that you're lousy at ice skating."

America stuck his nose up in the air and put his hands on his hips defensively. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I skate with Mattie all the time when we play hockey together."

"And you always lose," England taunted knowledgably. "And it's, in part, due to the fact that you always manage to take a few tumbles throughout the game. If you brushed up on your skating skills alone, you would stand a better chance."

"My skating skills are top-class, Artie. You just wait and see."

"Oh, yes," England smiled slyly. "I can barely contain myself."

* * *

"It must've been the skates I had on. I knew they felt a little bit funny on my feet," America murmured awkwardly no more than an hour later, soaked to the bone from colliding with the ice multiple times. His pride was thoroughly damaged and his backside was starting to grow stiff and achy from taking the brunt of all of his falls.

England nodded warmheartedly, growing soft at seeing America dispirited once more. He lied through his teeth to shield the other young man's dignity. "Yes, I'm sure that had something to do with it. Perhaps we should get some tea or… coffee to warm up?"

"Well, we could walk to Starbucks, but—wait! Didn't you say I couldn't have any more caffeine?" America questioned carefully, awestruck.

England struggled to come to terms with his decision. "It's New Year's Eve, and I must admit that you've been making a lot of progress in a short amount of time. One cup of coffee wouldn't hurt as long as it's decaffeinated."

America scrunched up his nose. Normally, he couldn't stand decaf coffee, but if that was the best that he was going to get, then he wasn't going to make any room to complain. He hugged England steadfastly, nearly snapping his spine before releasing him once more. "Maybe you're not so stiff after all, Artie."

Arthur smiled wistfully, not sure who to be angry at anymore.

* * *

By six o'clock, America and England had successfully been to numerous stores and tourist attractions. They'd headed to Times Square after their previous escapades to get something to eat. As anticipated, America's choice of restaurant was not the customary perception of classy, but there were real waitresses with real menus and real food (for the most part), which didn't look the least bit like Franken food or overall inedible, so England supposed it was just pleasant enough to miss the classification of being titled subpar.

America had brought them to Applebee's.

Despite the silly name, England deemed the restaurant a nice American grill and bar. However, he was getting a little worried that he was losing the bet. In truth, the day had been peachy, from America face-planting into ice to the talented, good-humored, street performers.

"So, is New York blowing your mind yet?" America interrogated lightly, sipping his beverage. He'd opted for seltzer water instead of something alcoholic. For some reason, he'd never taken to drinking unless it was necessary in the company of others to be polite. His inner child craved soda and other soft drinks that were loaded with sugar.

"I admit that I usually come to New York for business purposes, so this was a nice change of pace. I won't lie to you, Alfred, because I stand true to my word. You win the bet. I know that it's not eight o'clock yet, but—"

America jumped out of his chair, dropping a piece of shrimp back onto his plate. "I WIN? YES! I'm so totally going to hook us up with a good view of the ball drop. People have been camping out since last night, so there's going to be a massive turnout as usual."

England let himself smile amusedly, heart-warming upon noticing that America was looking at him with the same look of reverence he had displayed when he'd been a mere colony. He seemed ecstatic to have gained England's approval, a swelling sense of pride finding shelter in the center of his chest.

God, he'd really missed that after all so many years.

* * *

10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5…

England's breath caught in his throat as he craned his head upward.

4…3…2…

Why had he allowed his colony—his child—to stay so emotionally distant for so long? He had let both of them down.

1!

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The crowd broke into flurries of joy, couples embracing each other and celebrating a new start.

England wrapped his arm around America's shoulders, startling both of them. With a shaky exhale of breath, he pulled America's head onto his own shoulder, smoothing out the nation's hair gingerly.

"I'm sorry. You know I don't hate you. Things were just complicated and—"

America became serious, nodding his head against England's coat. "I know."

"I was so possessive. I should've known that I couldn't hold onto you forever. You had better things to do than stay by my side under my command. I could never _hate_ you, America. You'll always be like a little brother to me," England whispered steadily, careful when using America's country name in the presence of humans. "And there's nothing you could say or do that will change that. Prussia was right; I've been a rather terrible brother."

America shook his head, his hair tickling England's face as he did so. "No, you were always there for me even though you were angry. I probably would've been bitter also."

England sighed, relieved. "You know, I worry an awful lot about you, which is why I want you to take this diet seriously."

"I know, I always told you that you were going to get premature wrinkles from all that stress," America replied jokingly, pulling away from the embrace. "I'm sorry for hurting you back then. We both said things we didn't mean. Now, let's go back to the apartment because Prussia's probably going to wake us up damn early to hit the gym again."

England chuckled, willing himself not to get overly sappy. "Right, we'd better go."

America bit his lower lip to contain his smile.

He finally had his big brother back.


	6. Tighten Your Core

**_Author's Note: Summer is here! :D I finally understand the concept of 'sleeping' again._**

* * *

_Day 7:_

"Happy week-iversary or whatever!" Prussia proclaimed, busting into the bedroom with England in suit, carrying a bright red apple with a candle protruding from the top. "Make a wish!"

America's genuine laugh filled the room—the one that wasn't grating to listen to and actually seemed to float throughout the house in joyful bubbles. "You guys are the best. Thanks for this," he said appreciatively, taking the apple from Prussia's hands and puffing up his cheeks with air before blowing out the single candle. He promptly took a bite out of the side, enjoying the satisfying crunchiness of the snack.

"You know what they say, 'ein apfel a day keeps the doktor away'," Prussia reminded, slapping America on the back rather firmly, causing the younger nation to almost spit out the bit of the apple that was still in his mouth. He swallowed it with a painful cough, glaring weakly up at Prussia.

"You have to stop mixing German and English, it's making my brain hurt."

"You have to learn another language, dummkopf."

"Hey, not to brag or anything, but my Spanish is gettin' pretty good."

England decided this was his cue to cut into the conversation, eyes steely. "Perhaps, you should learn proper English first."

America took another slice out of the apple, eyes regarding England teasingly. "English? What's that? I speak American."

England bit his tongue with a scowl, urging himself to just ignore the comment. He truly didn't want to get into an argument with the American after they had been attempting to be on better terms with each other as of late.

"Anyway," Prussia transitioned coolly, "we have plans for today, so get up, get dressed, and eat."

America kicked the covers away and got out of bed, depositing the candle that had come with the apple on his nightstand for safekeeping. "Plans? Is this supposed to be some sort of surprise?"

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in you knowing. Dress warmly because we're going sledding," England announced with a bored sort of look on his face.

The young nation hopped excitedly in place for a moment, face alight with cheer. "Really? Yes! I haven't been sledding in such a long time! This is going to be epic! I was kinda hoping we wouldn't have to hit the gym today."

"Going to the gym isn't the only way to get exercise. And don't get too riled up because it wasn't my idea. Prussia suggested it last night," England informed, unable to suppress the twinge of a smile on his face after seeing America's enthusiasm. His happiness had always been infectious. "You'll be the one dragging the sled uphill, mind you."

America chuckled and nodded vigorously, already prepping his winter gear. "So, I'm guessing we're going to Central Park for this?"

"Unfortunately," England groused. "There are bound to be plenty of children seeing as they have the day off from school today."

America shrugged his shoulders. "The more the merrier, and the kids really bring life to the park. It wouldn't be the same without them."

"I beg to differ." England made his way for the door, gesturing for Prussia to join him as America made his way to the bathroom to comb his hair, although it would probably do nothing to tame the mop on his head.

* * *

"You're mad if you think I'm going to get on that contraption."

"Aw, come on, Artie. Live a little! Here, lemme give you a hand."

"NO!"

England flailed desperately in America's arms as the taller nation attempted to plop him on the sled forcibly. A deep fear rippled inside his gut as he kicked at the American's sturdy form. "Put me down this instant!"

"Hold on tight!"

"Don't you dare, you sodding git! I raised you to be more civil than this!"

"Are you getting this, Gilbert?"

Prussia stood at the base of the massive hill, smartphone at hand as he readied himself to start recording the ensuing action. He grinned wickedly; he really couldn't wait to see this. "Ja!"

England made one last attempt at an escape, nearly biting America's arm off in the process, only to be roughly pushed downhill by America's swift hands.

"ALFRED!"

Green eyes widened as the sled picked up speed. He held onto the sides for dear life, heart feeling as though it would explode at any minute within the cavity of his chest. The butterflies in his stomach had turned into vultures as he treaded through the mountain of snow, snapping his eyes shut in sick disbelief. This proved to be a problem though, seeing as the action of having his eyes closed led to him losing control of the sled, sending him barreling into the snow as the sled flipped over and landed a foot away.

For a split second, he'd been afraid to move, thinking that perhaps he had been severely injured on the way down. However, he couldn't feel any significant pain coming from any part of his body, other than the palms of his hands, which had taken the brunt of his fall. He also noticed that he had received a mouthful of snow when he had been launched off of the sled, and quickly spit out the melting pieces of ice, shivering as he lay in the soggy snow.

America came rushing to his side, dropping to his knees and shaking his shoulder urgently to rouse him out of his stupor. "Arthur! Are you alright? Dude, you crashed like a boss! Gilbert got it all on camera!"

Prussia wisely lingered a little further away from the site, poised to run for his life should the need present itself.

"I'm going to kill you!" England screeched, rolling over onto his back and heaving himself upward as he tried to grab America by the front of his coat. "I thought I was going to hit a tree and die!"

America snickered and cried out indignantly as England chased him back up the hill, eventually tackling the nation to the ground successfully. "I'm sorry! Alright, I surrender! I just wanted you to have a good time!"

"You're about to be sorry!"

Startled, America grabbed a fistful of snow and threw it at England's face before making another run for it, only to be stopped by a snowball colliding with his chest. Blue eyes rose to meet the red, both glinting devilishly in the winter sun.

Thus, the official Snowball Fight of 2013 had commenced, leading to all out warfare between the three nations present. Snowballs were catapulted haphazardly in every possible direction. Onlookers smiled and laughed as they retreated the area and dodged the incoming balls of ice.

All in all, it had taken the promise of three cups of tea at Starbucks and another lengthy apology on America's part before England had agreed to a temporary ceasefire and the possibility of considering a truce.

America couldn't recall ever laughing so hard in his entire life.

* * *

_Day 8:_

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. Thud._

America wiped the pearls of sweat off of his forehead with a weary groan, eyes rising to the sky to estimate the time. "Ugh, I hate shoveling the driveway! Why can't I just wait till the snow melts? Or better yet, I could hire some kid from the neighborhood to do it for me."

"That's the lazy way of getting the job done," England admonished, passing America a bottle of water. "I thought you outgrew that habit. Besides, you know that you need the exercise. Stay hydrated, and take a shower when you're done here. Your body odor is revolting."

America tried to look offended. "You don't like my masculine smell?"

"No," England droned dully, unfazed. "It's rather disgusting no matter what you try to call it."

America drove the shovel into the snow again, using his foot to dig it far enough until it made contact with the concrete underneath. He hefted the pile of snow up and tossed it to the side, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he continued. The heat of his skin along with the cold air had caused his lenses to fog up, making the shoveling ordeal that much more difficult and irritating. "Haters gonna hate," he finally mumbled.

England rolled his eyes at America's melodramatic behavior and went back into the house, deciding that some more tea was in order as well as a bit of hot chocolate for America. He'd let him indulge in the sugary drink just this once.

After all, he was undeniably making good progress.

* * *

_Day 9:_

By the time America had come downstairs for lunch, the television had been turned on and was buzzing the weather forecast. He settled himself on the couch and groaned loudly, bringing a hand up to his face in disbelief.

"What's wrong?" England immediately inquired, coming into the room with some sort of magazine at hand.

America sighed heavily like an exasperated child, throwing his head back to hit the armrest. "I just shoveled the driveway yesterday and now there's going to be more snow! Up to four inches! I knew I should've let it melt on its own. A few days ago, the weatherman said we were only going to get some flurries. No one can predict anything anymore!"

England smirked, unable to come up with a response that wouldn't irritate America any further.

"And my arms still hurt from yesterday!" America whined sulkily before amending his statement. "Not to say that I'm weak or anything, I mean, look at these guns!" At this, America flexed both arms, hoping to impress his audience.

But of course, England wasn't swayed.

"These babies have been working overtime. I'm going to pick up a bunch of chicks after all of this is over. Just five more days! Can you believe it?" America went on enthusiastically, nearly jumping out of his seat. "I don't know how I made it this far."

England scoffed. "Nor do I. I made a bet with France that I would see you through to at least the sixth day. That frog owes me thirty pounds."

America frowned at this, insulted that the two nations held such little faith in him. He was about to retort a snarky remark, but Prussia interrupted the pair.

The albino nation stepped in front of the television, blocking the view of the weather-map and the incoming cold front coming from Canada as he tried to gain everyone's attention. "Hey, Schweine! The awesome me has an awesome plan!"

"Oh, no," America muttered, grabbing a decorative pillow off the couch and cowering behind it. "Not this again… And did you just call us swine?"

"Who? Me? Nein. Anyway, look what I found!" Moving his hands from behind his back, Prussia presented to them a stack of DVDs, each with a different picture of a toned woman on the front with an impressive figure.

"Where did you find those?" America cried, briskly hopping out of his seat and attempting to rip the thin boxes out of the elder nation's hands.

"They were hidden in the cabinet of the guestroom that you let me stay in."

America's blush grew more predominate by the second, face burning with humiliation. "And they were hidden for a reason!"

"I thought I would find porn, but I was disappointed. You don't know how to have a good time," Prussia stated bluntly, barely noticing America's flustered self.

England squinted his eyes to get a better look at one of the covers. "Why do you own all of these workout DVDs if you never even use them?"

"For your information," America snarled bitterly, "I did happen to use them a few times."

"Oh, I'm sure you played them, but you never actually got any exercising done with them. What? Were you eating a tub of ice cream while simultaneously dreaming of maybe someday getting off of your lazy rear?"

"No! I _tried _to work out and stuff…"

"Well, then, it's about time you started putting these to good use," England suggested slyly, plucking a DVD off the top of the pile and dropping it into America's hands.

America glared at the offending DVD, eyes crestfallen. "Artie, can't I just have a break for one day and not exercise? I'll do double tomorrow."

"That's not the way it works, lad. Besides, now is not the time to quit. You're nearly there, so don't let everything you've accomplished go to waste. In five days, you have a doctor's appointment, and you'll have your blood drawn again to see if your results have begun to improve. If they haven't, and I don't see why they wouldn't have, you'll have to go on some more permanent medication for maintenance." England drew in a breath and put a hand on his former colony's shoulder. "You're still such a young nation, America, both mentally and physically. There's no reason for you to have to be taking daily medication. The drugs could have negative effects on your overall health in the future, so you don't want to do that to yourself unless it is absolutely necessary."

"I hear ya," America replied submissively, already sticking the workout disc in the DVD player. "I'm not going to disappoint you, England."

"I should hope not."

America grinned, now taking the task as a personal challenge.

* * *

"5, 6, 7, 8! Step, touch, and row! Really pull those elbows as you shuffle!"

"Just five more days," America assured himself between heaving breaths. He'd been at it for nearly an hour, and the woman on the television had made no move at slowing down or taking a break. Personally, cardio had never been his forte. Weight training and strength tests were always the areas that he excelled in, but jumping around and kicking his feet into the air just really wasn't for him.

"Big reach, and tap those toes! To the right, and now to the left!"

America groaned, stretching to either side and readjusting the sweatbands on his wrists and forehead before continuing. Through the window, he could see snow cloaking his beautiful driveway again. It took all his willpower to keep his calm.

"Step right and squat, warming through the core!"

The blonde woman with the ponytail on the screen that was leading the activity had been a major disappointment on the scale of attractiveness. America had hoped that if he had to fight his way to make it to the end of this new diet and exercise regimen, he would at least get to look at some pretty women on the aerobics DVDs along the way, but he'd gotten the short-end of the stick on that one.

"Woooh! Now, let's squat again!"

It should've been illegal to be that enthusiastic.

America brought his knees to a ninety degree angle and could only imagine what his form looked like from a bystander's position; legs flexed, arms bent, and butt pushed out behind him. Thankfully, England had wandered off somewhere and Prussia was preoccupied with playing some of his old videogames upstairs, leaving him with relative privacy in the living room.

"Lunge to the right and then left!"

Lunges were easier, but his stiff thighs shook involuntarily after being exerted for so long, muscles twitching and recoiling from the work.

"Now, jump then squat! Jump then squat! That's it! Jump then squat!"

"Jump then squat," America repeated, hopping into the air and coming down at another ninety degree angle. He couldn't help but laugh at how awkward the movement felt even through his serious attempts at trying to stay as focused as possible.

"Now, get in a plank position and take your feet side to side! Go!"

America dropped to the ground and got in a push-up position before hopping side to side and back with his feet, arms rebelling against him once more after all of their recent hard work.

"Come on! Hang in there! Let's see some action in that lower body!"

America chuckled once more, sashaying his hips from left to right with his butt in the air again. The instructor on the T.V was out of her mind! However, he decided to have fun with it, rolling his hips and hopping exaggeratedly while flaunting his 'lower body' as much as possible.

"Ahem," someone interrupted, clearing their throat roughly.

America stopped midway through a repetition, legs and butt turning to jelly as he let himself fall to the floor and scramble into a sitting position once more. He bit his lip and looked up at the visitor, only to lock eyes with none other than England himself.

"Heh... What's up, dude?" the young country questioned, voice faltering as he rubbed his neck and drew a hand through his sweaty hair.

"Do I even want to know what in the world you were just doing?"

America ran his thumb and forefinger over his chin contemplatively, eyes sparkling innocently. "Well, obviously, I was tightening my inner core."

England smiled despite himself and let out a quiet laugh before disappearing into the kitchen to retrieve something to drink. "Cheeky brat. I think it's high time for you to take a break."

"I was just getting warmed up, man," America boasted, trying to come off as completely well rested and not fatigued in the least.

"That may be, but you don't want to get dehydrated throughout," England reminded as he came back into the living room and offered America some ice water.

The nation accepted the proffered glass gratefully with a few small gasps as he tried to even out his breathing and lower his heart rate once more. "Thanks."

England nodded passively. "Don't mention it as long as I don't have to see you 'tightening your core' ever again."

America catapulted his wristband at England's chest in retaliation.

Just five more days…


	7. Something New Each Day

**Author's Note: The next chapter is the final one! Thank you all for showing this fanfic some love. :D**

* * *

_Day 10:_

"Gilbert, thanks for all of your help, dude," America said courteously to his departing companion at the airport while simultaneously refusing to become too sentimental.

The elder nation caught the world power in a bone-crushing hug, giving him a few firm slaps on the back. "No problem, Dummkopf. If you ever need Uncle Prussia's awesome guidance again, just give me a call."

America rolled his eyes, but eventually nodded obligingly. "Will do. You really do know how to make the best schnitzel."

Prussia grinned cockily, releasing America out of the vice-grip and instead opting to drape an arm around his shoulders. "Duh, I told you so. And if that Engländer tries to feed you any of his black pudding or Schwein pie again, I'll call for backup."

America let out a short laugh, happy to note that England was out of earshot and window-shopping around the gift stores. "It's good to know you've got my back."

"Ja. Well, good luck with the rest of your diet, and you two take care of yourselves," Prussia murmured softly, retracting his arm from America's shoulders and taking hold of his carry-on luggage. In all honesty, he was going to miss the hamburger-loving American. It'd been fun getting him into shape again, and it'd given Prussia something interesting to do.

"Bye, old man," America joked testily, watching as the other man scowled at him and finally managed to catch England's attention, waving to him before disappearing towards his gate.

"I hate to admit it, but he was quite helpful."

America spun around, now realizing that England had abandoned his interest in the shops and was standing beside him. The blue-eyed nation sighed, shoulders slumped upon seeing that England was studying him critically.

"Yeah… I don't know if I'll be able to work out on my own now. I mean, I'll probably head to the gym a few more times, and then do exactly what I did last time; cancel my membership and gorge my face with Hershey's chocolate bars," he admitted to his former mentor. "All of this progress would have been a waste—and not to be a Debbie Downer or anything, but I'm just trying to be realistic. Two weeks isn't going to make me change my lifestyle for centuries. Eventually, I'm gonna stumble across a burger."

England regarded America with a strange look before speaking. "What's brought on these sudden thoughts? Obviously, you aren't going to be on a diet for all of eternity—just until your cholesterol levels and overall health begin improving. Then, you can eat your beloved junk food in moderation while sticking with some of the changes you've made during your diet. And honestly, Alfred, who needs to be drinking soda with every meal and inhaling crisps, anyway? You'll still be fine and dandy without those monstrosities killing your heart."

America bit his lip firmly, hands slightly shaking by his sides. "Yeah, b-but… That's not the point. I can't do this."

"And why not? You've succeeded thus far."

"You don't understand!"

"Then feel free to explain because you're being absolutely incorrigible right now," England huffed, watching as America stuffed his hands into his pockets and pouted at him with that horribly infectious frown. "Perhaps, you're having caffeine withdrawals again."

America glared, inwardly seething. "That's not it. Maybe if you were more supportive then I wouldn't have gotten myself into this mess in the first place!"

"How do I have anything to do with your hamburger addiction?" England inquired, suddenly growing defensive while also hoping that America wouldn't cause a scene in the middle of the airport.

America brought a hand to his head, exasperated in every sense of the word. "Because I use food for comfort!"

The pair was silent for an arduous moment, the din of the airport still resonating around them and becoming more apparent as they did so. England gave America a long look, contemplating what to do in this situation, and how to fix it. Unfortunately, all that England could formulate in his frazzled mind was, "Oh, Alfred."

He led the American to the bench adjacent to them, urging him to sit down. "How long has this been going on for?"

"The bingeing? As long as I can remember," America mumbled.

"No, not that," England amended, taking a seat beside the younger nation. "The depression."

"What depression?"

England narrowed his eyes. "Don't play stupid with _me_, Alfred. If you're lacking the greasy food to console you, then it's not surprising that you're suddenly feeling depressed. However, I must commend you for your efforts at being stoic about it. You hid it quite well."

"For your information," America began heatedly, straightening out his hunchback. "I've just been feeling a little down today. It's at moments like these that I grab some burgers, but I don't have that option right now, so I'm pretty irritable and pissed off. Even when I was on the crazy McDonald's diet, I wasn't depressed long-term or anything. Everyone feels… off on some days. I'd overeat whenever that happened, but I still ate the junk food even when I was feeling fine and happy."

"Alright, then what's been the cause of your gloomy mood swings?"

America glowered. "You make it sound as though I'm some hormonal teenager."

England merely bit his lip to contain his snickering. "Well, you're barely an adult physically. You're not even allowed to drink alcohol in your own country."

"Don't remind me," America groused. "You'd think a guy whose over two hundred years old could have a good beer every once in a while, but no, I'm 'underage'. It's alright though because each time I go to Europe, I get hammered to make up for the lost time."

"Charming. Now, can we get back to the issue at hand? What's been bugging you?"

"I don't know. It's a lot of little things," America admitted sheepishly, turning his gaze away from England to absently watch some passersby. "Sometimes it's just the loneliness of it all that gets to me. I mean, like I said, I've been around for over two hundred years and have been pretty much subjected to watching everything and everyone change around me while I stay exactly the same. When there isn't any international business to tend to, I'm basically tied down to my house for hours on end. The occasional visitor comes in, but usually I just sit around and stuff my face to keep from dying of boredom and isolation. I don't really have a job outside of being a personification. You'd think that riding solo all the time might motivate me to go out and stay active or whatever, but it's easier said than done."

England sighed, standing up from the bench and taking off in the opposite direction. He let his former colony's words sink in as he made his retreat. "Come along then," he called behind to the other nation. "I've got just the cure for this terrible little habit of yours."

America jumped up and lagged behind the older man, eyes filled with curiosity. "Really? What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to have to make a few phone calls. I can't guarantee that my remedy will be ready by the end of today. It's going to take quite some time for it to be delivered," England replied cryptically, a sardonic smirk working its way onto his face. There was no doubt in his mind that America was going to be up all night, waiting for this 'cure' to his overindulging to present itself.

And sure enough, America was nearly bouncing in and out of his shoes by the time they had reached the car. He'd fired a million and one questions at England like an easily excitable child, struggling to settle down long enough to plop into the driver's seat.

"Perhaps you shouldn't be driving while you're in this state of mind," England suggested, berating himself for not leaving the nation back at the airport to wallow in his misery. He would've personally paid for a plane ticket to ship America off to some remote island just to get him out of his hair for a little while.

America rolled his eyes. "Psh, dude, I could drive even if I was half-dead."

"I'm just surprised that you're old enough to drive. I ought to ask to see your license," England responded mockingly as he slid into the passenger's seat and closed the door.

"Cheap shot, you old geezer. How old are you? Bet you've been around too long to count."

England scowled, nudging America in the ribs with his elbow. "Insolent brat. You're complaining about being around for less than three hundred years while I've been around for about twelve hundred, give or take a few. Quite frankly, my age is debatable."

"Hah, I was right," America laughed, adjusting his rearview mirror as he started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. "You are an old grandpa. Got any gray hairs yet?"

England spluttered indignantly, blushing heavily. "No, of course not! Normally, a country's physical age goes up one year for every fifty years that the country exists. I say normally because you, for some unknown reason, sprouted upwards and grew up far more quickly than expected. Had you grown at the average rate of the rest of us, you'd still be four years old physically."

"At least we know that I'm not a late bloomer," America said with a proud smile. "Every nation is different, I guess. Doesn't growth all depend on how quickly the land is settled and cultivated?"

"Sometimes, but there are other factors as well. Breaking away from your motherland is one that you should be familiar with. Had you stayed with me, you'd still be an early teenager at most," England huffed as he made himself comfortable for the long drive back to America's house.

America turned up the heat in the car while keeping his eyes plastered to the road the entire time. "Don't tell me you're still bitter about that. The rest of the world has moved on, man."

"I'm not bitter," England reassured, waving off the accusation. "Not about _that_, at least. I'm peeved with you for plenty of other reasons."

America chuckled lightly, surprising his fellow nation. "That's what I figured you'd say."

"Now, stop chatting and focus on the road. Though, I must point out that your dashboard is absolutely filthy. Do you ever sort through the stuff you have stockpiled here?" England queried with a grimace.

"Hah! That's nothing. Open the glove compartment, and tell me what you think."

Out of sheer curiosity, that's exactly what England did. He blinked several times to take in the mountain of broken flashlights, torn maps, strewn tissues, and scratched CDs in all their glory.

"And what's this?" he asked with a growing tone of amusement before taking out a CD. "A Coldplay record? Didn't you once tell me that you vowed to never listen to 'limey British music' because it was far inferior to your 'classic' American rock bands?"

America's cheeks instantly flushed upon his secret being discovered, digging his nails into the steering wheel as he tried to come up with a plausible excuse for his accustomed taste of music. "I-I never said I _never_ listened to British bands. Besides, Coldplay doesn't count. They are popular internationally."

England continued his search through the albums, smile increasing in width by each passing second. "Then what are Adele, One Direction, and—" he paused to laugh in disbelief, "You've got Canadian music in here too? Nickelback and Joni Mitchell seem to be some of your favorites judging by how used these CDs appear to be."

"That's enough," America muttered furiously, reaching across England's lap to slam the glove compartment closed, barely missing the man's fingers. "I forgot that I left those in there."

"I learn something new about you every day."

"Just so you know, Adele and One Direction don't count either because they're also internationally famous. Nickelback gets confused as being an American band all the time, so that means they don't count too." America tried to explain rationally in order to defend his pride.

England nodded mockingly. "Yes, yes, of course. How could I have made such a mistake? Well, please explain how Joni Mitchell fits into the picture while you're at it."

America bit his tongue, feeling his face burn as he gave into humiliation. "Joni's music is emotionally reassuring."

England broke into another fit of laughter, eyes filling with tears. "While that may be true, I never expected _you _of all people to be listening to such mature music. I wasn't taken aback at seeing One Direction in your range of tastes, but everything else baffles me. Nonetheless, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson from this."

"Don't let you go through my stuff unless I know exactly what I've got hidden?"

"No, before you go around acting like a bigot about how fantastic your American music is, learn to show a little respect and appreciation for those who are obviously superior in musical production."

America scoffed with a small shake of the head. "Superior, my ass."

England drew out a long breath, turning his gaze up toward the sky. "They never learn."

* * *

_Day 11:_

He couldn't believe it.

It was a miracle.

It was a delayed Christmas miracle.

He had actually managed to take a trip to the gym and back without stopping even once for something to eat. He'd successfully assured himself that he would eat at home, refusing to give in to the enticing temptations of visiting the McDonald's down the block. Not to mention that New York City had a Starbucks on every freaking corner and he would've killed for an espresso.

But no, he hadn't made it this far to give up now. Perhaps he could give up after his two weeks were up, but not now; not when he was so close to reaching his goal.

Thus, he sauntered his way up the driveway in high-spirits, fully looking forward to bragging to England about his major accomplishment. After all, the older nation had suggested that he tag along to help out, but America had been adamant about getting back into the habit of training on his own.

With a bit of sweat still lining his forehead and his limbs aching slightly after their workout session, America dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the front door to his house, shivering at the temperature change as he stepped into the foyer.

"England?" he called questioningly, hanging up his coat. "I'm back, and I didn't cheat on my diet, so I hope you have a good snack with my name on it!"

"Yes, well done. I'll be down in a minute, lad. I've got something that I need to show you."

America knitted his eyebrows together, hoping England hadn't found another dieting remedy to torture him with again. He kicked off his sneakers and took his usual spot on the living room couch, yawning widely.

He had nearly dozed off and thought he was hallucinating for a moment when he opened his eyes to see Canada standing in front of him with a large box at hand.

"Mattie? Dude, what are ya doin' here?" America swiftly got up and embraced his brother in a bear hug, squishing the box that was in between them.

"Alfred! Let go! I have a fragile delivery in here!" Canada gasped, pulling away from the American and hugging the box to his chest protectively.

Just then, England padded into the room, looking as stiff as always.

America glared at the man. "England, why didn't you tell me ol' Canada was coming over? I would've set up the other guestroom for him and made him some pancakes."

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Canada intervened with a calming hand on America's shoulder. "I drove all the way from Toronto to make this special delivery that England and I have had planned for over a month now."

"You drove from Toronto? That's about an eight hour ride!"

Canada nodded his head, eyes visibly fatigued. "Believe me, I know. That's why you better appreciate the gift because there are no refunds."

"Alright, so what's in the box, and what's the occasion?"

England walked up closer to the pair, arms crossed over his chest. "You didn't think that silly book was your only Christmas present, do you? I thought you knew me better than that."

America bashfully picked at the lint on his jeans. "Well, I mean, yeah. I was wondering if there was anything else, but I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Plus, it's the thought that counts. I'll be happy with any present I get."

"I believe you'll be much more content with this gift. Naturally, I planned to give it to you on Christmas Day, but there were a few… problems. You'll understand what I'm talking about in a moment. Now, sit down and open it," England said in his not-so-irritated-voice, which meant he was in quite a good mood.

America did as he was told, sitting back down on the couch and taking the box from Canada with a huge grin. "You really didn't have to get me a second gift. Now I feel like I should've gotten you both something more impressive."

"Just open it already!" England ordered with a roll of the eyes.

"Okay, okay! Chill!"

Gently peeling away the folds of the box, America peeked into its contents and immediately felt his face split open into an ear-to-ear smile. Reaching his hands into the box, he removed the bundle of joy inside, brimming with excitement and happiness.

"A dog! You got me a dog? It is mine, right?"

"Of course it's yours, you git. It's one of those yapper dogs your so fond of. He's a Yorkshire terrier and a proud British breed, mind you, even though he's Canadian-born."

America laughed heartily, nuzzling the puppy's face. "Hey, little guy! I'm America, but you can call me Alfred since I'm your new, super-cool dad!"

Canada felt his heart swell, glad to see his brother pleased after the arm and leg that he and England had gone through to get the cute little ball of fluff. "He's a toy terrier, so he's going to be medium-sized when he's full grown. The lady at the puppy boutique reserved him for us a month ago, but we couldn't get him to you in time for Christmas because he was still too little to be sold. Not to mention I had to get him vaccinated before I could cross the border with him. Do you like him?"

"He's perfect," America assured, scrunching his face up as the puppy licked his nose. "I haven't had a dog since the 1800's!"

England felt a smile working onto his face as well. "Hopefully, he'll keep you company while your home alone. He'll need to be walked frequently too, which will make sure that you're getting out of the house every day and not sitting on the couch like a vegetable until you start to rot. I can't think of a better cure to your laziness than having a pet around. Take good care of him."

"Of course. I'm gonna spoil him like crazy," America promised obligingly.

Canada stretched out a hand to pet the anxious puppy. "Any ideas for a name?"

"I can only think of one. He just seems like a snazzy entrepreneur with a secret fortune, and he'll probably be a romancer someday, so I'm gonna name him Gatsby."

"Like 'The Great Gatsby'? I didn't think you read your own country's books."

America's face grew very serious for a moment. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Mattie."

Then, Gatsby proceeded to attack America's hand as though it were a squishy chew toy.

* * *

_Day 12:_

After implementing a variety of persuasive tactics, America managed to get Canada to spend the night in the extra guestroom. He would've felt terrible making his brother drive another seven hours north, seeing as the man refused to take a plane because he dubbed it a 'waste of money' for traveling such a 'short' distance.

Nonetheless, the exhausted Canadian gave up his effort at politely declining and soon found himself dozing comfortably away in the inconceivably cozy bed that he'd been offered.

However, when morning arrived, Canada knew that he would have to pay for his mistakes. There was no way that America was going to let him leave straight after a quick breakfast. He would definitely insist that he stay and sightsee the city for a while or take part in some ludicrous activities that his brother had undoubtedly planned.

Sometimes he wished he could be more willful than his twin.

And as predicted, Canada was coaxed into joining America in a game of hockey for old time's sake. He couldn't refuse an opportunity at participating in some healthy competition, especially not after America had made some rude comments about France in his presence to instigate some fiery disdain for one another.

He should've known better than to take the bait for horseplay, but he'd been itching to get back on the ice again.

In all fairness, England had tried his best at stopping them, claiming that hockey was a dangerous and barbaric sport that had no place in civilized company.

As usual, they'd ignored their former guardian's warnings, and rented out a nearby ice rink for the afternoon to ensure that the playing conditions were more satisfactory than if they'd been skating on a lake.

Once that was taken care of, the twin nations loaded themselves and their hockey gear into America's car. They were about to exit the driveway when England came running out of the townhouse, swearing and muttering atrocities under his breath as he raced to reach the car with a red box close at hand.

He heatedly banged on the window of the driver's side, demanding that the blue-eyed nation hear what he had to say.

Rolling down the window with a smug look on his face, America began mocking the elder. "England? I thought you wanted to stay behind because you refused to watch us 'break our necks like bloody fools'."

England chewed furiously on his lip, very pink in the face as he struggled to find the proper words. "You need someone to supervise your idiotic schemes. Besides, you forgot the first-aid kit," he explained, holding up the metal box that he had brought with him. "A-And, I bloody well raised you both… I can't just sit back idly while you attempt to kill yourselves. You both know how violent your games always turn out to be… I left Gatsby with fresh water and food, so that's settled as well. You'll have to walk him as soon as you get back, but—"

"England," America interrupted with a knowing grin. "Just shut up already and hop in."

Frustrated with the entire situation, but unable to take the position of being neutral, England begrudgingly sat in the backseat, wringing his scarf in his hands in worry. Those two were going to drive him to an early grave; he could already feel it.

When they arrived to the rink, the game began promptly with neither twin sparing a second before pulling on their gear and skating out into the middle. They cautiously asked if England would mind refereeing the showdown, but he unsurprising refused and instead took a seat on the sidelines, arms folded across his chest.

"Whatever, we don't need a ref for this," America reassured, biting down on his mouth guard to protect his teeth from being knocked out.

Canada's eyes seemed to glint with excitement now that he was completely in his element. A game of hockey was all it took to get him out of his shell.

England was thrilled to see America more energetic and active than he'd ever been in the past few years, but that didn't mean that he was going to enjoy seeing him being beaten to a pulp by his twin brother.

A short countdown and they were off, skidding on the ice and bumping into each other as they fought for the puck, ramming elbows and shoulders multiple times. It didn't take very long at all for Canada to gain the upper-hand, skillfully scoring in the first few minutes of play. He played with a cool-mind, calculating each movement as he gracefully glided past America's defenses without the need for a second glance at the other nation's position.

Nevertheless, America put up a good fight. Where he lacked skill and raw talent, he made up for with sheer ambition. Thus, they were rather evenly matched with Canada just barely surpassing him.

It wasn't until a controversial slash at the back of Canada's legs occurred until trouble began to stir.

Staggering and hitting the ice as a result, Canada angrily glared up at America, spitting out his mouth guard to speak clearly. "What the hell was that? You tripped me! I should automatically be granted a win since there are only two of us and normally you'd be sent to the penalty box for that!"

A spark seemed to go off in America's eyes, setting off his temper. "What are you talking about? I barely nudged you! It was completely accidental. You were the one who had to be a sissy about it!"

"You won't even admit that you did it because I was in the lead and you knew you were going to lose!"

"No, you're just paranoid and reading into it too much!"

"You're a sore loser ever since my national team defeated yours during the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver! Just admit it; you still haven't gotten over it!" Canada seethed, throwing down his hockey stick.

"Ooh, hitting me where it hurts," America backfired sarcastically. "Be prepared because I'm gonna crush your team in 2014."

"I want to see you try!"

England, who had been peacefully reading the National Geographic magazine that had been dropped off in America's mailbox earlier that morning to shield his eyes from the ongoing savagery, finally decided that his cue to intervene had arrived. He marked off the page he had been on and stepped to the edge of the rink.

He prepared his sternest tone of voice, his paternal instincts growing in intensity by each passing moment. "Boys, that's quite enough for today. Gather your things and turn in for the day, if you'd please."

The twins paid England no mind whatsoever. Instead, Canada and America each had one hand on the other's shoulder while the opposite hands rose to throw the first punches.

Fed up, England ran onto the ice in his shoes, trying to steady himself carefully as he worked his way toward the brothers. "Hey, hey, hey!" he shouted over the pair as they spat derogatory remarks at each other. "Cut it!"

The punches that the brothers launched at each other were rather harmless, especially considering Canada's inability to be too rough with anyone, let alone his super-powered twin. America on the other hand just prodded the other twin in the gut with the intention of getting him to back off. He didn't put much force behind the maneuver, but made sure he got his motive across.

After witnessing America in many _real_ fights while in the military, England was used to getting him to calm down, but he'd never had to do it on ice while the other nation was clad in heavy, protective gear.

Grabbing America's arm, England yanked on the appendage, startling the young nation as he realized that a third person had arrived in the picture.

Unfortunately, England had foolishly stood in between the two. Before he could shout out another protest, America's other fist that was not trapped in his grip had gained momentum and collided with his face. It seemed that after being startled, the nation's strength had become untamed.

And this time, the punch was very real and very _painful_.

Groaning, England released America's other arm and held his left cheek, eyes stinging and skin burning as he drew in a harsh gasp.

"Jesus Christ, England!" America immediately screeched, ripping off the gloves on his hands and rushing to the elder nation's side in immense concern. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hit you! You stood in between us and I didn't realize it was you and—"

"It's fine. I'm alright," the injured nation lied steadfastly, even though he felt as though his jaw was about to shatter into pieces. He knew it had been a complete accident, and he didn't want to condemn America for a slip-up.

"Nice job, America," Canada said bitterly with a shake of the head, following the pair from a short distance.

"Shut up, Canada. He was the one who stepped in the middle of us. You could've easily hit him too," America replied hastily before putting a consoling hand on England's shoulder and guiding him off of the rink. He looked extremely guilt-ridden, like a puppy who'd torn apart an expensive pair of shoes. "I'm really really sorry, England!"

"I know. It's alright," England reiterated, taking a seat on the sidelines again and gently massaging the side of his face with a wince.

America frowned, meekly attempting to pull England's hand away from his face. "Let me see it."

England shook his head roughly, hand still plastered to his cheek. "Leave it, America. It's nothing."

"Dude, I know that wasn't 'nothing'. _I_ was the one who hit you. I'm not exactly a weakling, y'know. Now, let me see it. I might've broken your jaw or something."

Persistent fingers finally wrenched away England's hand, leaving America to kneel down and gingerly take hold of England's chin, turning his face to the side to get a better look at the damage.

Still remorseful, America reluctantly spoke up. "It doesn't look too bad. I've seen way worse. We just havta get you some ice and pain meds."

England glared at both of the twins. "That's not necessary."

"C'mon, Canada, we're callin' it a draw for now. We gotta go home."

"A draw? I was winning!"

"Really? I can't remember, so it's a draw," America stated coyly before changing into his shoes and ushering the other two nations out of the rink.

On their way home, America stopped to buy some ice from a nearby gas station, demanding England to hold some up to his face even though he insisted numerous times that he didn't need it.

Needless to say, America was dead-set on making it up to his mentor, still feeling his heart ache horribly after having hurt him.

Later that night, as arrangements were made for Canada to head back home in the morning, America realized for the first time that he had allowed himself to openly reveal his concern for his former guardian. He swore that he didn't care all that much and that he was only worried because any good friend with a heart would be worried, but he knew he was lying to himself.

The agonizing feeling swelling in his chest was more than enough proof of how much he cared.

Now he knew what England felt like whenever he was the one who was injured or in trouble. It was no wonder the man had set out to help him through this dieting experience. He would've done the same exact thing for England.

And for the first time in a very long time, America experienced a genuine emotion that he hadn't felt toward the man in many years.

And that emotion was gratitude.


	8. In The End

**_Author's Note: It's finally here, the last chapter! Thanks for all the reviews and favorites. :D _**

* * *

_Day 13:_

America had taken his leave to go to the gym early the next morning, careful not to wake Canada or England as he made his way for the door. He had a brief encounter with Gatsby, who sniffed at his shoes and cocked his head up at him, wondering where he was going at such an early hour. The puppy whined quietly, one floppy ear rising questioningly.

America smiled warmly, patting the dog's head. "I'll be back, little fella. Gotta head to the gym for a little bit. I'll get you your breakfast and take you for a walk when I get back, alright? Protect the house and make sure Canada and England don't set anything on fire, okay?"

Gatsby blinked at the nation a few times, still not understanding as his tilted head peeked out the open door to get a sniff at the cold morning air. He retreated into the foyer as America waved goodbye to him, listening until the door was fully locked before deciding to hop on the couch and stuff his face between the armrest and the decorative pillows, body fully sprawled out.

America sighed, revving up his car and turning up the heat as he closed the door to block out the merciless January air. Honestly, he had no idea how Canada put up with it; if it was this cold in New York, he could only imagine the plummeting temperatures in Toronto.

Still, his mood escalated every time he got ready to go to the gym. Working out had become a relaxing part of his day, helping him forget about any stress that had been nagging at his mind previously. A nice jog on the treadmill and some weight-lifting was all it took to warm his spirit.

But this was no ordinary trip to the gym. It had a nostalgic significance because it would be the final time that he would work out before his two-week dieting period would come to an end. Then, he'd be on his own, with only Gatsby to come home to brag to about his amazing strength.

When he arrived, he started his workout with the usual cardio and then progressed to the weights after he'd tired himself out. He tried to remember everything Prussia had taught him about proper technique as well as which exercises worked out each muscle. Today, he would focus on his back and arms. He got started on a set of pull-ups, happy to see that the number of repetitions he could do without his arms giving out on him had significantly increased. He could finally feel his body getting tone and back into the shape that it used to be before he had stopped exercising, relief flooding through his bones as he realized that he was getting stronger and healthier. It seemed that England and Prussia's efforts hadn't utterly failed, after all.

After his hour and a half were up, America collected his things and made his way back home, once again avoiding any temptation to stop for food. He deduced that if he moved quickly, he could still manage to make some whole-grain pancakes for breakfast. He still had Canadian maple-syrup in the fridge and decided he could treat himself for one day if England wasn't in a bad mood after yesterday's incident.

When he returned to the familiar house and unlocked the door, he found Gatsby snoozing belly-up against the couch pillows, lightly snoring as his hind paw twitched in his sleep. He grinned fondly at the puppy, resisting the urge to cuddle with him and instead setting off to make those pancakes that he'd been thinking about during the entire ride home.

He wasn't the best chef in the world, but contrary to popular belief, he wasn't completely clueless in the area of culinary arts. He could put something decent together if he really put some effort into it, and pancakes were certainly one of his specialties after all of the lessons Canada had given him. He'd never burned a pancake yet, and though he knew he couldn't put together a meal as well as his brother could, he would still give it his best shot.

He was in the middle of flipping the pancakes over on their opposite sides when an intruder stepped into the kitchen, a stifled yawn escaping them.

"How long have you been up?" England's groggy voice asked as he stole a peek at what America was cooking.

America hummed, shrugging his shoulders as he flipped another pancake and watched it sizzle. "A while. I managed to head to the gym and back already. Ever since I've been on this diet I've gotten a lot more energy in the mornings." He turned his head away from the pan in front of him for a minute to properly greet England, but ended up just gawking at him instead of actually speaking.

The man looked as though he'd been involved in a very rough bar fight, the entire left side of his face a purplish color from his chin to his cheekbone.

Unable to find anything else to say, America felt guilt swallow him whole again. "I'm so sorry about yesterday. I—"

"Don't be," England interjected, waving off his concern. "It looks far worse than it actually is. It barely twinges when I touch it."

Not believing the man for a minute, America simply decided to stay silent, knowing that there was no point in trying to argue with his old mentor. Instead, he decided to change the subject. "In that case, would you like some pancakes? They're whole-grain, so don't worry."

A bushy eyebrow rose sharply. "You cook?"

America merely rolled his eyes. "I'll ignore that while you contemplate your answer."

"Yes, that sounds fine."

The younger nation shook his head with a lofty chuckle. "It's like pulling teeth with you. I'll get you some tea also."

"You can make tea?"

"I wish you'd have a little more faith in me sometimes," America admitted with a half-hearted smile as he poured fresh water into the tea kettle and set it on the stove. "I'm not completely useless all of the time."

England took a seat at the kitchen table, smothering another yawn into his hand. "No, that's not what I was implying."

A brief period of silence rested between the two after that, until England broke the awkward atmosphere again.

"What is that dreadful noise? It sounds like a broken vacuum cleaner," he commented, turning around to peer into the living room.

America laughed, shoulders shaking with barely contained amusement. "That's Gatsby snoring. I didn't think he'd get so loud."

"You're kidding me," England insisted, incredulous. "Such a little dog like that is snoring up a storm?"

America's smile continued to grow. "I don't have the heart to wake him. He's tuckered out after snatching a sock from my room and running around with it all of last night. He sure loves socks."

"What a strange dog."

"Well, he's British-Canadian, so don't blame me for his weird genes and quirks."

England steeled himself to counter the remark with a strong scowl accompanied by an insulting comment aimed at America's own 'weird genes', but never received the opportunity because of Canada's impeccable timing. The quiet nation gradually walked into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes wearily and shuffling over to the table. "What is making that noise?" he asked with a small wince.

"It's that ruddy dog in the living room. He's snoring," England supplied as America passed him his tea.

"But he's so tiny! How could he be making so much noise?"

"That's exactly what I was wondering."

America chuckled, serving the pancakes to his two grumpy houseguests. He'd added a little maple syrup, a dollop of whipped cream as well as some sliced strawberries. "You guys are exaggerating. He's just tired. Let him sleep."

Canada accepted his pancakes graciously, looking quite impressed with how they had turned out. He took a bite and gave America a thumbs-up, wolfing them down vigorously. England on the other hand, approached his pancakes with more self-control, but ultimately complimented America on a job well-done also.

Pleased that he hadn't screwed anything up, America sat down and enjoyed his own pancakes, still unable to make eye-contact with England after seeing the state of his complexion. After they'd all finished, he rose from the table and retrieved some more ice and wrapped it in some paper towels, handing the wad to England along with some Tylenol.

"Could you please stop wasting your worries over this superficial bruise?" the man growled, pushing away the proffered items sharply.

America huffed impatiently, laying an empathetic hand on England's shoulder. He understood how important it was to England for him to defend his pride and dignity (America had to have attained his own stubborn resolve from someone). "You could have both your arms chopped off and you'd still call it superficial! Please, just take the pain reliever and ice for me. It'll make me feel less guilty," he urged, fully knowing that the elder would comply simply to put America's own mind at ease.

Unwilling to participate in a battle of wits so early in the morning, England finally conceded, downing the medication with some tea and holding the ice to his face with a stagnated grimace. Though he'd never admit it aloud, it was heart-warming to see America so worried about him. He hadn't seen America worry for his sake since the second World War.

"Well, I better get going soon. I don't want to have to drive at night," Canada informed as he helped clear the table.

England nodded, giving the nation a pointed look. "Be safe and call one of us as soon as you get home. It's a long trip, and it's best to keep someone updated on your location."

"You guys are both worry-warts. Now I know where America gets it from," Canada said teasingly, poking America in his side to provoke him. "I've got most of my stuff packed. I didn't bring much, so I'll be able to go within the hour."

America shifted, moving away from Canada's antagonizing hands as he washed the dishes. "I'll help load your stuff into the car. Make sure not to get lost while cruising through Jersey; their signs are awful, and half of them are covered by overgrown bushes. Even a GPS can get lost in Jersey. After that, it should be smooth sailing through Pennsylvania and upstate New York."

"Thanks for the heads up."

"Speaking of a 'heads up'," America mumbled curiously before removing his sudsy hands from the water and catching Canada in a headlock, mussing up his hair as he did so. His twin shrieked and tried to wriggle away from the dripping hands, shuddering as America used his hair as his personal hand towel.

Releasing the trapped Canadian, America gave him a thoughtful look. "That'll teach ya not to mess with your bro. Anyway, thanks for visiting and bringing Gatsby over. You gotta visit more often."

Albeit slightly astonished by America's blatantly welcoming words, Canada nodded with a sheepish smile. This diet seemed to have even managed to put the nation in a better mood. "Sure."

After cleaning all the dishes, America treaded into the living room and kneeled beside the couch, gently tickling Gatsby's ear to get him to wake up. Bleary eyes rose to meet his, blinking confusedly as America petted his head gently. "You sure know how to snore, huh?"

Gatsby merely stretched out his little paws before him and lay on his back, impatiently waiting for America to reward him with a belly-rub.

The nation obliged with a short chuckle. "I see that you've started making yourself at home. Do you like England and Canada? They'll probably visit often."

Gatsby looked at America intently, as if trying to process the words but unable to descramble them.

America grinned again, playing with the puppy's dark fur. "Welcome to our dysfunctional family."

* * *

_Day 14:_

"We've been through a lot together."

"More than you can even recall."

"Not much has changed."

England shook his head lightly as he folded another one of his shirts and deposited it in his leather suitcase. "I disagree; everything has changed since the day I discovered you in that abandoned little field and decided to take care of you."

America frowned, quite downtrodden at the fact that England was leaving. Chances were that they wouldn't see each other for at least a month or so, depending on the international business that they would have to tend to.

Likewise, America would go back to fulfilling his duties as a nation, which meant there was a lot of paperwork coming his way after taking this short 'vacation'.

"You're still the stuffy Brit you've always been," America said with a toothy grin, though his chest was aching as it had when he'd been a child, begging England not to return to Europe.

England sighed, lips twitching into a smirk. "And you're still a cheeky brat. It seems that your growth spurt into a super-powered nation did nothing apropos to your level of maturity."

America's annoying smile did not falter. He knew that statement was England's way of saying that he was content with the way their relationship stood. Instead, he decided to shift topics, knowing that they were getting a bit too sentimental for the time being. "It's a good thing you came around then and set me in my place," he said with a bit of sarcasm. "Thanks for that."

England turned away from his task of packing for a moment, shooting America a serious look. "If you ever run into any kind of trouble again…" he trailed off, unable to admit to being overly-concerned.

"I know I can count on you," America finished for the man. "I've always known that, but I wish you'd do the same sometimes. If you ever need a hand with anything, I wouldn't leave you hanging. You don't always have to hide away and do everything on your own."

England crossed his arms, brows furrowed. "There's no need to—"

America intervened before the man could decline any further. "I know. Damn it, England, when are you going to let me return the favor? What's family for? Besides, after messing up your face, I have to make it up to you somehow."

"Alright, you have my word," England murmured in surrender, letting his arms fall to his sides. He would've been lying if he'd claimed that he hadn't expected the bone-crushing bear hug from his former colony that followed. America trapped him in the embrace, leaning down a bit to better accommodate England's shorter stature.

After what felt like centuries, America retracted from the hug and pulled his arms away. England spotted the bandage still resting in the crook of the taller nation's arm from where his blood had been drawn earlier that day and sent to the lab for testing. Apparently, the nation was now out of the 'danger-zone' and was on the road to being cured of his diet-related health problems. His triglyceride levels had drastically jumped from being 'very high' to 'borderline', and his high cholesterol along with any risk of high blood pressure had been almost completely resolved. If he continued to eat healthy and snack on junk foods in moderation, there would most likely be no permanent damage to his body.

"It's good to know that my liver isn't shot after all of this," America remarked, noticing that England was staring at the bandage. "It would really suck if I had liver cirrhosis at the physical age of nineteen."

"I would've killed you," England murmured forcefully, "if after all of the stress and worry you put me through, you were going to die due to your damn hamburgers."

America scoffed and patted England's shoulder. "I wouldn't let that happen. Someone has to be around to annoy you while simultaneously making sure that France doesn't cause you to jump off of a bridge."

"How thoughtful of you," England replied with dripping sarcasm. "It's splendid to know that you care."

America straightened up and flipped his hair theatrically. "I know, I'm amazing. Now, hurry up and finish packing or you're gonna miss your flight. I don't want to have to risk getting a speeding ticket because you forgot to take your tea kettle or something."

"Very well, you brat. It'll just be another few minutes. I'm nearly done."

America smiled brightly again, sauntering out of the room to go and wait downstairs.

Things really hadn't changed at all. England was still his stodgy mentor looking out for him, and America would perpetually be the one getting himself into trouble.

All was well again.

He'd have to reward himself with some Starbucks.


End file.
